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GREENWOOD LEAVES: 



COLLECTION 



SKETCHES AND LETTERS 



BY 



GRACE GREENWOOD. 



SECOND SERIES. 



BOSTON: 
TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS 

MDCCCLII. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by 

SARA J. CLARKK, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachuscltji 



B S T X : 

THLRsTU.V, TClUtV, AND KAIEKSUX, PKISTEKS. 



TO DR. G. BAILEY, 

Of Washington, D. C. 

In hanging underneath your name, half playfully, half aflec- 
lionalely, this rude wreath of woven leaves, I am conscious of 
having two distinct ends in view. In the first place, I mean this 
Dedication to he a sort of an indicator of the tone and character of 
my volume. As earnestly as I desire to speak my uninspired, unpol- 
ished, but most sincere words to the many, I would not be accused 
of obtaining readers under false pretences. I would not put forth a 
volume, purporting to be merely a collection of light romancei^ and 
gossipping letters, wherein are avowed certain moral sentiments, on 
which there exists a wide and warm difference of opinion, — wherein 
grave political questions are treated freely, if not irreverently, and 
'the weightier matters of the law' discussed, it may be thought, 
somewhat lawlessly. Then let your name, my friend, as it stands 
here, say to whoever looks upon this page, that in those that follow, 
he must expect sometimes to meet the expression of the senti- 
ments, the principles, the vital truths so long advocated by your 
brilliant and fearless pen, and by a brave and faithful life, more 
eloquent than any written word. Yes, let your name, if it will, 
act as a noli me tangire warning to the tender conservative, the 
fastidious and exclusive lover of romance and poetry, the nervous 
shrinker from moral agitation and political discussion. 

I have yet a hope, that some who have small appetite for such 
moral food as I set before my readers, will yet not reject it for this 
foretaste of its quality, but will allow it to be neither stale nor 



IV DEnTCATION. 

unhealthful, though scarcely flattering to the palate. Though they 
may not ' look to gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles,' they 
will, I am sure, admit that the thorn has its fragrant and ' milk- 
white' flowers, and that even the thistle, under its outside rough- 
ness, has a homely sweetness of its own, apparent to other than 
asinine perception — a pleasure not alone for the small bird and 
searching bee, but for whoever is bold enough to grasp and tear 
apart the prickly calix, and so come upon the honey and the bloom. 
Ah, those who have tasted alone can tell of the freshness, the 
glow, the inner sweetness of a rough, strong, uninviting, unpopular 
truth. 

The second object which I have in view, or rather at heart, in 
this dedication, is, I must confess, somewhat less unselfish than the 
first. I do not alone seek thus to indulge a natural vanity, by 
acknowledging the kindly relations which exist between us two, — 
I have a higher pride, in letting the world know that Freedom and 
I have one and the same friend. 

GRACE GREENWOOD. 



CONTENTS 



Philip Hamilton and his Mother 1 

The two Thompsons 19 

The Step-Mother 31 

The Irish Patriots of '48 48 

A Mere Act of Humanity ....*.... 56 

Effie Mather 69 

Apollonia Jagiello 93 

The Volunteer 100 

The Poetry of Whittier 122 

The Darkened Casement 133 

Dora's Children - . . . . 147 

A FEW words about Actors and Plays .... 201 
The Story of a Violet 215 

SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 

Letter i 220 

II 223 

III 228 

IV 230 

V 234 

VI 237 

VII 239 



vi contents. 

Letter viii 242 

IX - 245 

X 248 

XI 252 

XII 257 

XIII 261 

XIV 265 

XV 269 

XVI 274 

XVII 280 

XVIII 284 

XIX 289 

XX 292 

XXI 296 

XXII 300 

XXIII 302 

XXIV . . - 305 

XXV 209 

XXVI 313 

XXVII 318 

XXVIII 322 

XXIX 327 

XXX 330 

XXXI 334 

XXXII 338 

XXXIII . 342 

XXXIV 347 

XXXV 351 

XXXVI 356 

XXXVII • 359 



CONTENTS. Vll 

Letter xxxviii 365 

" XXXIX 369 

EDITORIAL. 

A Good Story Spoiled in the Telling .... 374 

Preachers and Politics — A Contrast .... 378 



GEEENWOOD LEAVES 



SECOND SERI ES. 



PHILIP HAMILTON AND HIS MOTHER. 

I REMEMBER to have spent a few weeks of last autumn 
with a dear friend, the wife of an eminent physician in one 
of our inland cities. My friend was a woman of fine intel- 
lect, much feeling, and large experience of life. She was 
a delightful companion, an admirable hostess ; and I shall 
never cease to think of her with grateful and pleasurable 
emotions. 

One rainy, October day, Mrs. Allen, her eldest daughter, 
and myself were together, in the pleasant little library, 
where we usually spent our mornings. Mrs. Allen, I re- 
member, was seated with a huge work-basket at her side, 
busily engaged in darning hose, of all sizes, from the 
ample sock of the stout doctor, down to the wee stocking 
of little Jenny. Miss Laura was bending gracefully over 
her embroidery frame ; and I was reclining, after my own 
indolent fashion, on a comfortable lounge, reading aloud the 
'Princess' of Tennyson; drowning the sound of the storm 
without by the sweet musical flow of its verse, filling the 
darkened hours with the golden enchantment of its gay 
romance. This was our second reading; and, after an 
1 



2 GREENWOUD LEAVES. 

hour or two, tlie volume was finished. As I re-read, softly 
and lingeringly, that last line of the story, 

* Lay thy sweet hands in mine, and trust to me,' 

and then closed the book, I remember that Mrs. Allen and 
Laura looked up from their work, saying, sadly, as with 
one voice, ' Is that all ? ' 

I remained silent, with a listless, dreamy recollection of 
pleasure ; my thoughts still chiming to the delicious melody 
of that unique and delightful poem. After awhile, I raised 
my eyes and fixed them upon a picture, on the opposite 
wall — a portrait, which I had not before noticed particu- 
larly. 

' That is a very lovely face, Mrs. Allen,' 1 remarked. 
' Is it the likeness of any one of your family ? ' 

' No,' she replied ; ' the original was not even a relative, 
but was the dearest and most intimate friend of my early 
life. Pray tell me what you read in her face.' 

' I should say that the lady possessed great sweetness and 
pliancy of disposition ; a thoughtful, but not by any means 
a powerful mind. I should say that she was exceedingly 
sensitive, capable of intense suffering, but quite incapable 
of defending herself from wrong, or even of resenting it 
with much spirit.' 

' You are quite right,' said my friend, ' you have read 
her character very clearly. Ah, poor girl, she had a sad 
history of her own. Should you like to hear it ? ' 

'Oh, by all means ! ' was my reply. 

My friend laid aside her work ; and, fixing her eyes on 
the picture for a moment, began her simple narrative, which 
I will endeavor to give in her own words, as near as I can 
remember. 

Laura Ellerton (you see that I named my daughter for 
this friend) was my schoolmate and room-mate for three 
years ; and we became, from necessity and inclination, 



PHILIP HAMILTON AND HIS MOTHER. 6 

most intimate and tenderly attached. Laura was a singu- 
larly unselfish, humble, and affectionate being, for one so 
beautiful, gifted, and attractive, every way, as she then was. 
That portrait does not give one a just idea of her early 
loveliness, as it was taken at the age of twenty-five, when 
she had already begun to fade. Laura was not wealthy. 
Her mother was a widow of limited means, who, mother- 
like, often deprived herself of the very comforts of life to be 
able to educate thoroughly and dress tastefully her idolized 
daughter. 

After leaving school, my friend and I, as might have 
been expected, kept up a brisk and voluminous correspond- 
ence. For the first year, our letters were filled with those 
little nothings, descriptions of parties, dresses, rides, and 
rambles ; all the small events and innocent gayeties which 
form the life of young girts who are just going into society; 
but after that, they gradually grew more thoughtful and 
confidential. I believe that I was first in love and engaged ; 
but being rather careful and sensitive, said as little as pos- 
sible, even to her, on my heart affairs. But Laura was one 
to whom sympathy was a very necessity, air, life. First 
came significant hints about a certain young lawyer, who 
had lately settled at R ; then followed glowing descrip- 
tions of his superb figure, his splendidly handsome face ; 
and enthusiastic praises of his genius, his acquirements, 
and the quiet elegance of his manner. His attentions to 
her were gratefully chronicled, and all his little compli- 
ments minutely, yet modestly reported. At first, it was 
'Mr. Kingsbury;' but after a little while, it was '-Arthur 
Kingsbury ;' and in a very short time, it was '■dear Arthur.' 
They were engaged. Ah, then, what letters she wrote ! 
How full of sentiment, happiness, gratitude, love — no, love 
is a feeble word — adoration. She absolutely worshipped 
her handsome and gifted lover ; an homage most sweet and 
delightful to the interesting idol, doubtless, but which it was 
unworthy weakness in her to yield. Thus she continued to 



4 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

write for nearly a year, and then her letters suddenly ceased 
altogether. About that time I was married. I wrote to 
Laura, reminding her of an old promise to be my brides- 
maid. I only received, in reply, a few hurried lines from 
Mrs. Ellerton, stating that her daughter could not possibly 
attend the wedding, as she was considerably out of health ; 
but that she sent her ' dearest love ' and ' fondest wishes.' 

On my return from our bridal tour, I wrote again to 
Laura, intreating her to write and relieve my great anxiety. 
She did write, at last; and such a letter! It was sad and 
touching beyond description. It was blotted with tears — 
was itself like the long, low sob of a broken heart. Her 
lover had left her ; was already married to another ! and 
yet there was no bitterness, no harsh resentment in her 
feeling toward him. But stay, I have that letter in my 
writing-desk. Here it is. After "making the announcement 
I have mentioned, she writes thus : — 

' I heard for some time, hints and whispers concerning 
Arthur's attentions to Miss Earle, a lady of high connec- 
tions and considerable fortune, who was visiting in our 
village ; but I could not believe that his heart was turned 
from me, until he himself came to me, and requested to be 
released from his engagement ; telling me that he had been 
mistaken in thinking that he loved me as deeply as he 
might love. He begged me to forgive him for all the pain 
he had caused me ; and I have done so, even as I hope to 
be forgiven for my own errors and sins. 

' I can never think, as others think, that Arthur has been 
influenced by mercenary motives. Miss Earle, though not 
very young nor beautiful, is intellectual and highly accom- 
plished ; and you know that I am neither. Oh ! how vain 
and presuming I have been ever to believe that he could 
love me, a simple village girl ; he, with his glorious genius, 
his noble presence, and all his rare attainments. Oh, Alice, 
sometimes comes the bitter, bitter thought that he divined my 
interest in him, at the first, and was led, by generous pity. 



PHILIP HAMILTON AND HIS MOTHER. 5 

to ask me for the love which he knew in his soul was his 
already ! 

' Dear Alice, do not think hard of him. How could he 
give his hand to me when there was one he so much pre- 
ferred. He looked sadly troubled at that last interview. I 
saw it, and pressed my hand hard against "my heart, to keep 
down the sobs and shrieks with which it seemed almost 
bursting. I did not reproach him. I did not even weep ; 
and though I was quite still and silent, I gave him my hand 
kindly, as he rose to go, and tried to smile on him as he 
looked back at me for the last time. 

' I remember nothing of what passed after that, for some 
days. Dear mother tells me that she found me sitting by 
the table, cold and white as marble, and utterly insensible. 
I believe I had something like a brain fever; but I was not 
conscious of much suffering. Now I am better, much better — 
almost well, indeed, though my kind friends are yet troubled 
by my colorless cheek and languid step. During the day, 
I try to be cheerful and courageous, for dear mother's sake ; 
but at night, oh, Alice, at night, I often lie awake through 
long hours, dreadful hours, and weep in my lonely sorrow, 
till my very heart seems dissolved in tears. Then, I some- 
times reach up my clasped hands, and cry, through the 
darkness, " Oh, Father in heaven, have mercy ! Bind up 
my wounded heart, and fill it with thy love ! " Then 1 
pray for /im — pray that his life may be rich in love and 
crowned with blessings ; and so I always grow calm and 
fall asleep. 

' But the day of Arthur's marriage — ah, I must unlearn 
my heart that trick of calling him Arthur — I mean Mr. 
Kingsbury's marriage, I could not conceal my unhappiness. 
I was weak, despairing, almost wild ; and I could find no 
rest but in the arms of my mother, pressed close against her 
heart, with her dear hand laid on my hot brow% or tenderly 
wiping away the tears which gushed forth irrepressibly and 
incessantly. When we knew that the hour had gone by, 



b nREENWOOD LKAVES. 

dear mother prayed in a low, fervent voice, that divine 
strength might be given to her child to overcome that love 
which had been to her a snare and a temptation, and had 
now become a sin. When she ceased, I lifted up my head 
calmly, feeling that God's peace had descended to my 
heart. 

' Now, dear Alice, do not be troubled for me. All will 
yet be well. I need only patience, and trust in the good- 
ness of our Father, who knoweth what is best for us.' 

As you may suppose, I shed many a tear over this touch- 
ing letter from poor Laura. I could but wonder, however, 
that she bore her trial so well ; clingingly dependent, fond, 
and devoted as I knew her to be. I think I was right in 
ascribing much of her strength to the calm, sustaining affec- 
tion of her mother. 

My husband and 1 both wrote to Mrs. Ellerton and Laura, 
inviting them to spend the winter with us, amid all the fresh 
glories and new dignities of young housekeeping. Mrs. 
Ellerton replied at once, accepting the invitation for her 
daughter; but stating that, as she had near relatives in 

P , she should not be able to make her home at our 

house. They came on together, however, and we had a 
pleasant little visit from Mrs. Ellerton, who was a woman 
of strong, yet beautiful character. 

Laura was, indeed, changed ; so much sunshine had faded 
from her face. Then she had grown exceedingly delicate, 
pale, quiet; yet, perhaps, more lovely than ever — a sort 
of moonlight beauty. When we were alone together, I 
found that she, unlike her former self, carefully avoided all 
reference to Kingsbury ; and as I, for my part, heartily 
despised and detested the man, his name was never men- 
tioned between us. 

We had a very pleasant winter. Laura gradually re- 
gained much of her old serene cheerfulness, and endeared 
herself greatly to our hearts. Ah, her music ! I never can 
forget it. Her playing was very fine ; but her singing, of 



PHILIP HAMILTON AND HIS MOTHER. 7 

Scotch songs and old ballads especially, was something 
peculiarly and indescribably delightful. There was one 
who was greatly charmed and won by it, and by the sweet 
singer herself. This was Mr. Hamilton, a constant visiter 
at our house — a distant relative, but a near friend of my 
husband. He had been for some years the congressional 
representative from our district, and was a man of worth 
and influence, as well as of distinction. He was about 
thirty-five, and had never been married. 

After a month or two, it became quite obvious that dear 
Laura had made a deep impression on the heart of our 
honorable friend. The doctor and I were duly delighted ; 
Mrs. EUerton seemed pleased, and Laura, apparently, W£is 
not displeased, though she gave no evidence of being seri- 
ously impressed in her turn. Yet when she found that she 
was indeed loved, truly, generously and tenderly by Mr. 
Hamilton, her heart, so lately wounded and humiliated, very 
naturally went out toward him, in a glad, affectionate grati- 
tude, which was almost love. But hers was a truthful and 
honorable nature ; and, withdrawing the hand which she 
had yielded in the first impulse of her kindly feeling, and 
modestly casting down her eyes, she told him all the sad 
story of her love and her sorrow. When this was finished, 
she said, in a low, trembling voice : 'So it is, dear friend, 
that love seems to have withered, died in my heart ; so it is 
that I can only give you a tender and devoted friendship. 
And oh ! what a return were this for your beautiful and 
noble love, with all its fervency and concentration.' 

Mr. Hamilton rose, and walked up and down the room 
several times, with a troubled brow. He had hoped for 
something better than this — for the fresh, impassioned 
love, the virgin trust, the early warmth and devotion of 
that pure young being. But presently, he paused, and 
looked toward Laura. She was sitting by the table, her 
head supported by her hand, her eyes concealed by the 
white, slender fingers ; but he saw that her cheek paled and 



y GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

flushed, and her lips quivered incessantly. He drew near; 
and gently lifting that fair hand, and gazing down into those 
eyes, those mild and earnest eyes, said, ' And so, you have 
suffered, dear Laura ; are still sorrowful. Ah, then, more 
than ever do you need such tenderness and devotion as I 
can give you. If it is not mine to console you, let me, at 
least, drink part of your bitter cup ; if I may not give you 
happiness, let me share in your sorrows.' 

The generous feeling, the 'loving kindness' of these 
words quite overcame Laura with gratitude and admiration. 
She rose impulsively, yet timidly, to meet his extended 
arms, and smiling and weeping alternately, leaned against 
his breast, feeling that she had there found protection, 
security — her rest. 

On the anniversary of my own marriage, there was a 
second wedding in our house — Laura Ellerton to Augustus 
Hamilton. 

This union proved a happy one — quietly and soberly 
happy. Laura was a good wife ; neat, careful, cheerful, 
and equable in temper ; and Hamilton was altogether the 
husband so generous a lover promised to be. 

During the third year of her wedded life, Mrs. Hamilton 
suffered a great bereavement in the death of her noble 
mother. But there was given to her a sweet consoler — a 
dear little babe, whose loveliness and infant smiles had 
power to charm trouble from all her thoughts. She named 
this son — who proved an only child — Philip, for her own 
father, whom she pleasantly, though imperfectly remem- 
bered. 

When this boy was about nine years of age, Mr. Hamil- 
ton died, very suddenly, from a disease of the heart. 
My husband was called to him about midnight, and by day- 
break he was dead. The doctor said that he suffered much, 
and was scarcely conscious until just at the last, when he 
asked for his 'dear little boy,' kissed the frightened and 
weeping child very tenderly ; kissed and blessed his ' gentle 



PHILIP HAMILTON AND HIS MOTHER. 9 

wife,' his ' sweet Laura,' drew her fair head down on his 
bosom, and died. 

Laura was a sincere, though not a passionate and de- 
spairing mourner. She had never loved her husband 
passionately ; but she had loved him with a true and ever- 
growing affection, and grieved long and deeply for his 
loss. 

From that time, she gave herself up with singular devo- 
tion, to the care and education of her darling son, of whom 
she had been left sole guardian. And Philip was no 
common boy. With rare beauty, and a delicate, nervous 
organization, I think he was the most wondrously precocious 
child I have ever known. He scarcely seemed a child ; he 
had few of the habits, and little or no taste for the usual 
sports of children. Studious, poetical, and strangely seri- 
ous, he cared for nothing but books, music, and the society 
of his mother. His love for his beautiful mother was a 
deep, absorbing sentiment — the one only love of his life. 
He shrank from all boyish associates, and rough out-door 
exercises, suited to his age and sex, and sought only to sit 
by her side and pore over his books, hour after hour ; to 
listen to her singing in the evening, and to accompany her 
in her short strolls and unfrequent drives. 

As a matter of course, the boy grew up nervous, pain- 
fully sensitive and delicate to fragility ; and though very 
lovely and interesting, one could not look upon his pale, 
poetic face, or gaze once into his large, dark eyes, so abso- 
lutely luminous with soul, without sad, foreboding thoughts. 
The angel of sorrow seemed to have set his seal on that 
high, white forehead — smooth and childish forehead though 
it was. 

At the early age of fourteen, Philip Hamilton, after pass- 
ing a brilliant examination, entered college, at New Haven. 

Ah, then, how sad and lonely became the life of his poor 
mother. She had literally no one near her to love. My 
own duties and cares confined me almost entirely at home. 



10 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

and Laura was never greatly given to visiting ; so we were 
not together as much as I now feel that we should have been 

One day — I shall never forget that time of surprise and 
bewildernnent — I went over to Laura's, taking my work, 
thinking to spend the day with her, hoping thus to renew 
our old intimacy. I was shown into the parlor, where I 
found my friend, seated on the same sofa with a tall and 
handsome stranger; a man of about forty-five, I should say. 
This person's face, even at the first glance, struck me as 
peculiar. It was faultlessly, coldly regular. The lips were 
full and warm, yet not pliable ; but firm-set, as by the 
force of a strong will. His eyes were blue, yet looked in- 
tensely dark, from a certain sternness of expression, and 
the shadowing of the thick, black eyelashes and projecting 
brows. 

Whh a flushed cheek and an agitated manner, Laura 
presented this gentleman as Mr. Kingsbury. I might have 
known it was he ! He rose, and bowed courteously ; al- 
most* transfixing me with a keen, searching look from out 
his ambushed eyes. I found him rather interesting in con- 
versation ; yet there was a sort of imperiousness in his 
manner, and a superciliousness in his voice, which disturbed 
and annoyed me ; and, after a little talk with Laura, con- 
strained on both sides, I took leave — Laura, for the first 
time, not urging me to stay. 

On my return home, I ascertained from my husband, that 
Mr. Kingsbury had lately returned from Europe, where he 
had been spending a number of years, with his family ; 
that he had lost his wife and only son, in Italy ; and was 
now living, very modestly, in our city, on the small remains 
of his fortune, with his daughter. Miss Antoinette, a showy 
and handsome, but a very heartless young lady, as it after- 
wards proved. 

A few days after my inopportune call, I again met Mr. 
Kingsbury, who was then walking out, with Laura leaning 
on his arm. They did not at first perceive the doctor and 



PHILIP HAMILTON AND HIS MOTHER. 11 

me. They were strolling along very slowly ; the gentleman 
looking down and talking earnestly, while Laura looked up 
with a most confiding expression of face. I thought that I 
never had seen her look so handsome and happy. Oh, this 
first love ! 

Thus matters went on, till Laura and that old lover of 
hers — thus returned, after so many years, to his allegiance 
— became almost inseparable; thus went on, until, one 
Sabbath morning, in our church, the proud and stately 
Arthur Kingsbury was wedded to the gentle and still beau- 
tiful widow of Augustus Hamilton. 

For the next year, I saw less than ever of my early 
friend, as neither the doctor nor myself were at all pleased 
with her lordly husband, who seemed, on his part, to regard 
us with distrust, if not positive dislike. I heard, however, 
from time to time, painful rumors that Laura's second mar- 
riage had not proved so happy as she had probably hoped. 
Mr. Kingsbury, it was said, was a stern and exacting, yet 
careless and neglectful husband ; and Miss Antoinette was 
far from affectionate or respectful toward her step-mother. 

But Laura told nothing of these things, even to me, to 
whom the paling of her cheek and the wanness of her 
smile betrayed that all was not well in her home and in her 
heart. 

But with the second year of her second union, there 
came a new and terrible sorrow to poor Laura — a sorrow 
which she could not hide. Her son Philip, her beautiful 
and gifted boy, was brought home from college insane ! 

Yes, his peculiar habits of study, his devouring passion 
for acquirement, his intense absorption and tireless applica- 
tion, robbing him of sleep and wholesome exercise, had at 
last done their work — unstrung his nerves and disordered 
his brain. 

The poor boy's case was not pronounced utterly hopeless ; 
he had intervals of perfect sanity, though his frenzy was 
very violent at times. It happened, unfortunately, that he 



12 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

took, from the first, a terrible dislike to his step-father, who 
was weak and hard enough to return this hatred with in- 
terest. Toward his mother, Philip was always gentle and 
tractable when his step-father was not by ; but not even her 
presence could repress the jealous rage and defiant scorn 
which the sight of her husband excited. 

Mr. Kingsbury, with the petty malice of a mean spirit, 
resented these ravings of insanity ; and, in his cruel heart, 
resolved to punish the poor, crazed boy. To this end, he 
dismissed my husband, and employed a physician of the 
old school — a stanch advocate of the horrible system of 
curing insanity with bolts and bars, chains and scourging. 
I have been told that Laura went down on her knees to her 
husband, begging that her dear boy might not be confined 
in the rough strait-waistcoat prepared for him ; that no 
chain or cord might touch his delicate limbs ; that he should 
not be humiliated by a blow. She was by when that darling 
son was first struck by her unfeeling husband. That blow 
was the death-blow to her own poor heart ! She sprang ^ 
forward, and caught the uplifted arm of the angry man ; 
then suddenly reeled and fell ; and, as she fell, a small, 
crimson stream oozed from her lips. She had ruptured a 
blood-vessel ! 

After this, Laura was very ill for some weeks, and 
though she so far recovered as to be able to walk about her 
room, and even to ride out occasionally, she never was well 
again. 

In his seasons of sanity, Philip was always at her side ; 
and never was there a more tender and assiduous nurse. 
When his fits of frenzy came on, he would be taken from ■ 
her and confined in a small, scantily furnished room, in a 
remote wing of the large house, and she would see and 
know no more of him for some days. But his wild cries 
would sometimes reach her in the still night-hours, while 
her troubled heart was keeping the vigils of its sorrow ; but 
she dared not stir, or weep aloud, for fear she should disturb 
the soulless slumberer at her side. 



PHILIP HAMILTON AND HIS MOTHER. 13 

Most fortunately, Philip had no distinct recollection of 
what passed in his periods of insanity, and, when himself, 
was courteous in his manner toward Mr. Kingsbury and his 
daughter; and yet one might observe an instinctive and 
involuntary shrinking from them both at all times. 

As Laura drooped and failed, I visited her more frequent- 
ly, and spent many hours in her sick room. I saw that 
Philip clung to her more and more closely as it became 
evident, even to him, that she was about to leave us. It 
was touching to witness the intense, anguished solicitude of 
his deep, idolatrous love. And, oh, it was affecting beyond 
description, to see the poor boy, as his sudden frenzy came 
on, torn from the very bedside of his dying mother, and 
remanded to his cheerless, solitary confinement. 

At her pleading request, my husband attended Mrs. Kings- 
bury as her physician. He saw at once that her fate was 
sealed, that she was dying; and though he visited her 
constantly and gave her medicine, week after week and 
month after month, he felt that all was of no avail, and 
this he frankly told her. She received the sad intelligence 
with meek resignation, though she grieved much at the 
thought of leaving her poor, afflicted boy to the utter deso- 
lation and peculiar sorrow of his lot. 

I well remernber the last dread hour, the deathbed scene. 
It was just at midnight that she died. I had been with her 
all the afternoon and evening. Doctor Allen came in about 
ten o'clock, and was immediately struck by the change 
which had taken place in the sufferer. I had thought her 
asleep, but he pronounced her insensible. In this state she 
remained for more than an. hour longer ; then she revived, 
and seemed quite herself. In a low tone, she asked for her 
husband. Mr. Kingsbury came forward, and took her hand 
in his. Laura raised to his face a timid, appealing look, as 
she said, ' Dear Arthur, if I have not been in all things 
a loving and obedient wife, say you forgive me, before I 
go-' 



14 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

' Oh, Laura,' he murmured, ' it is for you to forgive. 
Tell me that I have your pardon for all — all.'' 

Her answer was to press the hand she held against her 
heart, while the tears slid slowly from her half-closed eyelids. 
Mr. Kingsbury turned away, and sat down, at a little dis- 
tance, hiding his face in his handkerchief. I think he felt 
then ; I even think he wept. 

Laura lay for some time with her eyes closed, and quite 
still ; then she looked up, and spoke one word very dis- 
tinctly — ' Philip.' 

The boy, who had been kneeling at the foot of the bed, 
weeping silently, rose, came to his mother's side, and bent 
over her, sobbing aloud. She wound her arms round his 
neck, and kissed him many, many times, but said, calmly, 
' Philip, my child, my dear, dear boy, I must go from you ; 
God calls me, and I must go, though my very soul seems 
cleft in twain by this parting.' 

' Oh, mother, mother ! ' he cried, ' do not leave me 
alone ! I cannot, will not live without your love ! ' 

' My dear son,' she murmured, 'we may not be altogether 
separated. If it is permitted, I will come to you, and be 
often with you ; will watch over you, " even to the end." 
I know my son, you will never forget your mother ; but 
remember, also, your Father in heaven ; and God will com- 
fort you.' 

Very soon after speaking these words, the loving heart of 
the mother ceased to throb — the broken heart of the wife 
was at rest. 

When Philip saw that she was indeed gone, he sprang up, 
with all the quick motion and wild air of insanity. Shriek 
after shriek broke from his foamy lips, while his distended 
eyes seemed to shoot forth live flSime ! In a few moments, 
he was secured, and borne forcibly to his distant and lonely 
apartment. 

The next night, my husband and I both went to Mr. 
Kingsbury's to watch with the body of our beloved friend. 



PHILIP HAMILTON AND HIS MOTHER. 15 

It happened that, about midnight, the doctor was called to a 
patient who was extremely ill ; and I was left alone — alone 
with the dead. But I was not superstitious, and could not 
be afraid of dear Laura, you know. I sat down by the 
couch on which lay extended her slender, symmetrical 
form — looking so strangely tall, then, I remember — and 
laying back the thin muslin from her fair, sweet face, gazed 
upon it long and mournfully. I thought of the first time I 
saw her, and how she blushed and smiled when we were 
introduced. I recalled the very words she first spoke to 
me, and even remembered just how she was dressed then. 
I thought of our school frolics and little troubles ; of our 
one brief quarrel, when I was wholly to blame. I thought 
of all, all, till my tears fell fast on that still face, and those 
cold, clasped hands. 

Suddenly, I was roused by a strange, startling sound, at a 
little distance. It struck a chill to my heart, for it seemed 
the rattle of a chain ! Nearer and nearer it came, up the 
long hall, ringing on its marble floor, then paused at the 
door of Laura's room, which opened quickly, and young 
Philip entered. He was pale to ghastliness ; some locks of 
his long, black hair were hanging over his face ; his dress 
was disordered, and from about one of his ankles, hung a 
small iron chain, which, it seems, he had wrenched from its 
staple, in the floor of his room. These were the means by 
which he was confined when more than usually violent. 

Now, I saw at once, by the expression of his eye, that 
he was perfectly sane. He did not appear to notice me, 
as he came eagerly toward the couch where his mother 
was wont to lie — where she was now laid. When he saw 
the still attitude, the rigid lips, the death seal on the brow, 
he clasped his hands together and groaned aloud. Then 
he flung himself down by her side, wound his arms about 
her, laid his head against her breast, and cried, ' Oh, mother, 
mother ; I thought it was a dream that you were dead ! ' 

I was presently relieved beyond expression by the return 



16 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

of my husband ; and we two finally succeeded in calming 
the keen anguish of the orphan boy. 

After the funeral, with the ready acquiescence of Mr. 
Kingsbury, we took Philip home with us, to be for a time 
as one of our own. 

Mr. Kingsbury was not appointed the guardian of Philip. 
Laura left in my care a long letter, commending the unfor- 
tunate lad to the affection and guardianship of the only 
brother of his father. Dr. Hamilton, a wealthy old bachelor, 
and a distinguished physician of New York. 

Within a fortnight after this letter was forwarded. Dr. 
Hamilton arrived in P — — , and came directly to our house. 
We were all charmed with him. I never saw a more bene- 
volent face ; and his manner was unequalled for courteous 
kindliness. Philip, though naturally reserved, was won by 
it at once ; and I saw, with inexpressible pleasure, that the 
good man seemed disposed, from the first, to take his 
afflicted ward home to his heart, and to make him the object 
of all his love and care. 

Philip's property was found to be in a sad condition, and 
many weeks were spent in business arrangements. The 
Kingsburys left his house, which was let to a good tenant. 
The furniture was sold, principally ; but those articles most 
sacred from dear associations, were confided to my care. 
That portrait was Philip's parting gift to me. He had an 
admirable miniature of his mother, which he wore next his 
heart always. 

During this time, Philip was but once insane, and that 
for only a few hours. How different was his treatment 
from what it had formerly been. He was now watched 
over, but not constrained ; his poor burning head was con- 
stantly bathed, he was spoken to kindly, and ministered to 
patiently, and no one testified any fear of him. 

It was with real sorrow that we parted from the dear boy, 
at last ; yet we knew that it was best he should go from 



PHILIP HAMILTON AND HIS MOTHER. 17 

In the course of a month, we received a very kind letter 
from Dr. Hamilton. He was about to sail for Europe, with 
Philip, where they might spend some years, for the plea- 
sure, instruction, and perfect restoration of the young man. 

After this, Philip wrote to us occasionally from various 
parts of Europe. His letters were exceedingly interesting, 
and cheerful in tone ; but, as he was painfully sensitive in 
regard to his peculiar mental disease, we could learn nothing 
in particular about his health, though he always said he was 
well. Finally, from some cause or other, he ceased to 
write, and we heard no more from him. 

As many as seven ;^ears from the time of Laura's death, 
I was spending some weeks of the winter with a friend in 
New York. One night, we all attended one of the upper-ten 
parties — an immense affair. Early in the evening, I heard 
many comments on the beauty and talent of a young English 
lady, who was then playing for us ; and, with some difficulty, 
made my way toward the piano, to catch a glimpse of the 
performer. She was, indeed, lovely ; with a fair, mild 
face, and a full, yet graceful figure — a true little English 
woman, sweet and healthful. But I did not observe her 
closely then, for my attention was riveted to the face of a 
gentleman who was standing at her side, turning the leaves 
of the music for her. I thought I had never seen so noble, 
so spiritually beautiful a countenance. It was the face of a 
stranger, surely ; and yet there was something familiar, 
something dear, something which stirred my heart, in it. 
Presently, the young man happened to look round and meet 
my eye. He started, and took a step toward me, as though 
he would speak ; then hesitated, as I did not advance, and 
regained his place by the piano. I turned ; and, passing 
through room after room, at last found myself alone in the 
cool and quiet conservatory ; and here I sat myself to the 
work of remembering when and where I had ever met that 
face. But in vain ; I was completely bewildered. Sud- 
2* 



18 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

denly, I heard a quick step, looked round, and the stranger 
was at my side ! 

' Mrs. Allen, dear Mrs. Allen ! ' he said, extending his 
hand. 

I took it, mechanically ; looking sadly puzzled, I suppose. 

' Is it possible that you do not recollect me ? ' he said, 
with a sort of mournful smile. 

Oh, that smile! how it brought her back — poor Laura! 
— and then I knew her son ! 

' Philip Hamilton ! ' I cried ; ' my dear boy ! ' and, forget- 
ting that he had grown to be a young man, a tall and elegant 
young man, I flung my arms about his neck, and kissed 
him repeatedly. 

Then we sat down, and had a good long talk by ourselves. 
Philip told me that, on his complete restoration to health, he 
had studied medicine, with the intention of devoting himself 
exclusively to the treatment of insanity; that, having ac- 
quired his profession, he had now returned to his native 
land to carry out this philanthropic purpose. He said that 
he had married in England, and begged leave to present 
his young wife, whom, he said, he had first loved for her 
name, which was Laura. I bowed a pleased assent ; and 
he darted off, to return in a moment with the charming 
pianist leaning on his arm. 

Mrs. Hamilton was very affectionate in her greeting ; 
and, among other pleasant things which she said, told me 

that Philip had promised her a visit to P early in the 

spring. 

'Yes,' added Philip, 'we are all coming then. Uncle 
Richard often speaks of the doctor, and still oftener of the 
doctor's wife.' 

' Then your good uncle is still living,' I remarked. 

'Yes; and long may he be spared to us ! I know not 
how we could live without the dear old man — Heaven 
bless him ! ' 

And, in my deep heart, I responded — ' The dear old 
man — Heaven bless him ! ' 



THE TWO THOMPSONS. 



'God made the country, and man made the town.' 

It has become very fashionable of late, with writers of a 
certain grade, to draw invidious comparisons between the 
city and country, and to dwell pathetically upon the miseries 
and mortifications to which town-bred people are subjected 
by unsolicited and interminable visitations from their rural 
acquaintances. 

For some years past, the patient public has been deluged 
with dolorously ludicrous tales and sketches on these same 
delightful topics ; they have a strong family likeness, and 
their features are something of this sort. A wealthy and 
aristocratic city family, elegant, polite, and refined to the 
last degree, are, some fatal morning, surprised, taken by 
storm, by the incursion of certain low-bred, illiterate, 
scheming, drawling, impertinent, and altogether disgusting 
country people, in bell-crowned hats and steeple-crowned 
bonnets, sheeps-gray and flaunting calico, flourishing ban- 
dannas ; telling endless stories in an impossible dialect ; 
laughing loud, guessing and asking questions ; a wild, 
predatory race, yet in primeval ignorance of the mysteries 
of silver forks, napkins, finger-glasses, party hours, French 
cooking, the polka, and the opera ; a bold and venturous 
people, who, with eyes yet unsealed to behold the rude 
material and curious cut of their own clothes, or the 
appalling greenness which is sprouting out of every crevice 



20 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

of their characters, give themselves up with a charming 
abandon to the enjoyment of their new atmosphere and 
surroundings, undazzled and unoppressed by luxury and 
state, spread themselves extensively on damask sofas, and 
are delightfully at home on embroidered ottomans and in 
velvet fauteuils. 

The men, who are invariably coarse, loud-voiced, and 
rough-shod, alarm and stun the courteous master of the 
house with long, political harangues, rank with that bar- 
room democracy which takes the fact of an American being 
a gentleman as a proof of his being bribed with 'British 
gold,' and looks upon a display of clean linen as the sure 
insignia of aristocracy. The women, familiar and exacting, 
drag their amiable hostess, a sweet, uncomplaining martyr 
to her politeness, all over town, on endless shopping expedi- 
tions ; or go forth slyly, by themselves, and come back, 
heated and noisy, to dinner, with numberless ' great bar- 
gains,' cheap shawls, hose, and ' haiidkerchers,'' in brown 
paper parcels, under their arms. 

' After many days,' or weeks it may be, during which all 
imaginable vexations, mortifications, and impertinences, 
have been endured by their entertainers, with unfailing 
politeness and exemplary fortitude, the terrible visiters take 
their departure, selfish, envious, unsatisfied, and ungrateful 
to the last. 

I think I have given a pretty fair synopsis of the matter 
of the class of tales to which I referred ; the manner of 
relation is, of course, somewhat varied, yet never rises to 
absolute Miltonic sublimity, or becomes too exquisitely witty 
to be endured, even by persons of delicate nerves. 

Now, all this is unnatural, ungenerous, pretentious, and 
essentially vulgar. It is insulting to the true character of 
our country people, and should be at once resented by them, 
were it not so weak and ridiculous, as the expression of a 
small kind of aristocracy, and as the vehicle of the stalest 
and cheapest sort of wit and humor. 



THE TWO THOMPSONS. 21 

In the first place, it is not true that country people are in 
the habit of making long, unsolicited visits to the city. 
Again, it is not true that, when with their fashionable friends, 
they are free and easy, presuming, and impertinent ; not 
true that they are insensible to their own peculiarities, or 
blind to the annoyance they sometimes occasion, slow to 
take hints, meddlesome, exacting, or ungrateful for kindly 
attention. On the other hand, they are often too much 
averse to appearing in the society of cities, and too jealously 
alive to the fear of seeming presuming and intrusive. 
When thrown for a time in those polished circles, they 
seldom thrust themselves forward, but are, in general, too 
silent and humble, and awkwardly respectful. They have 
often so ready an apprehension, and so native a delicacy, as 
to prove the least troublesome of accidental acquaintances 
for people of fashion. They have such a quick pride, such 
a live sensibility, you may put them down with a wave of 
the hand, shake them off with a toss of the head, and cut 
them up root and branch with a cold word, or an insolent 
laugh. 

It is true that the country cousin flushes too deeply and 
moves too constrainedly in the gas-lit drawing-room, thinks 
morbidly on the last year's fashion of her dress, and is 
never quite oblivious of her freckles and faded ribbons ; 
and the young farmer there stammers awkwardly, and walks 
or sits with a new and painful consciousness of hands and 
feet. But place the girl at home, and as she goes about her 
simple daily avocations, you have a happy, natural, graceful 
creature, most lovable and womanly ; and the farmer is a 
true type of hearty and dignified manhood, when, Mac- 
Gregor-like, ' his foot is on his native heath.' 

Has it never occurred to you, my dear reader, that the 
picture, so often retouched and placed in a new light, might 
possibly have another side than the one always presented by 
the generous and facetious writers to whom we have referred 
above ? Let us turn it out. 



22 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Soon as the dull and dusty summer months come round, 
town people are suddenly visited by ' dreams of all things 
green ' — intimations of a previous existence, it may be — 
propensities nomadic and Nebuchadnezzaran for a pastoral, 
or, rather, pastural life, and pour out into the country in 
squads of sporting men, companies of pale women, and 
battalions of infantry. These are received by families of 
farmers, often mere acquaintances, with an open-hearted and 
open-handed hospitality — a hospitality which has some 
meaning and some merit ; for, in the country, where people 
are frequently obliged to be their own domestics, and where 
there are neither lions nor markets, visits from city friends 
necessarily occasion a great amount of care and labor. 
Here the entertainers give up all their time and thoughts, 
with cheerful devotion, to their guests. Every day brings 
some new plan for their good, or pleasure, and sees it 
carried out. Every thing possible is done to make them 
feel contented and comfortable ; in short, at home. They 
are urged to prolong their stay from time to time ; and 
when, at last, they are really off, are accompanied to the 
coach-door with sorrowful farewells ; waved to from the 
porch ; and spoken of kindly, even though they leave dis- 
ordered apartments, trampled grass-plots, broken carriage- 
wheels, and used-up saddle horses, behind them. 

In return for all this, the farmer and his family are 
fortunate, if, when they are in town for a day or two, they 
are courteously received by their summer friends, and 
treated respectfully by the servants of the house, and not 
met with careless indifference, or stately politeness, which 
is worse ; or patronizing condescension, which is more 
insufferable than all. 

Hospitality is a rural virtue, and, in its perfection, as 
rarely found in cities as clover tufts growing among flag- 
stones ; yet, when found, all the more refreshing and beauti- 
ful a sight. 

That the writer, in her own person, with so many of the 



THE TWO THOMPSONS. 23 

careless, uncourtly ways, with so much of the atmosphere 
of rural life about her, has yet been so generously dealt 
with by her friends of the town, she assigns to her peculiar 
good fortune in having fallen in with a class of people who 
might well redeem any metropolitan society from indis- 
criminate reproach ; men and women of sense and heart, 
who, looking through dress and manner, were pleased to 
recognise an earnest and independent spirit. For these, 
and such as these, she has only admiration and grateful 
feeling ; yet for their good she surely is not penning this 
present article. 

' Lizzie, who were those stylish young ladies in old Mr. 
White's pew, to-day ? ' asked Julian Fielding of his sister 
on their way from church one Sunday afternoon in August. 

'Why, they are his grand-daughters, the two Thompsons, 
from New York. They are on here for the summer, to 
rusticate. It is said that one of them was in love, " not 
wisely," and an absence from the city was rather peremp- 
torily prescribed by the father, who, you know, is a rich 
AVall street broker.' 

' Have you called on them, sister.?' 

' No, not yet ; I waited for you to come home, and go 
with me. They are so elegant and fashionable, I am half 
afraid. But we will make the call to-morrow, if you say 
so ; for scarcely any one has been to see them, and I am 
sure they must be very lonely at that dull, old place of the 
Whiles.' 

' Agreed. I like their appearance, decidedly. One of 
them is rather pretty.' 

' Oh, very^ I think, Julian,' exclaimed Lizzie, with gener- 
ous enthusiasm. 

The speakers, in the above dialogue, were the only son 
and daughter of the Episcopal clergyman of a small, retired 
village, in the southern part of New York. Julian Fielding, 
a young gentleman of twenty-one, just out of college, was 



24 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

gay-tempered, spirited, and rather handsome ; with con- 
siderable natural cleverness, but little knowledge of the 
world. Still, he could not be pronounced a verdant young 
man ; for, with him, native wit and tact well supplied the 
place of experiences. He was carelessly rather than courage- 
ously original, and deservedly a general favorite. Lizzie 
Fielding, two years younger, was just such a girl as a young 
gentleman loves to point out as his sister. She was a very 
pretty, a very charming creature, truly beautiful in face, 
graceful in figure, tasteful in dress, and modest and un- 
affected in manner. She was a very embodiment of 
affectionateness and devotion ; somewhat too romantic and 
sensitive, perhaps, and given to great bursts of sorrow on 
small occasions ; yet, merry as a dancing fairy between 
whiles. 

A beautiful love and a perfect confidence existed between 
this brother and sister from their earliest childhood. 

The important call on the two Thompsons was made — 
speedily returned — and thus began an acquaintance which 
rapidly deepened into intimacy ; an intimacy of the closest 
and most confidential kind, on the part of the young ladies. 
The sisters were not very pleasantly situated in the sober, 
methodical household of their grand-parents, and soon 
became almost domesticated at the cheerful home of the 
Fieldings. They appeared quite unlike city belles ; wore 
gipsy hats, with myrtle wreaths ; hunted wild flowers, went 
trouting, made hay, ' loved pigs and chickens,' had slight 
fear of cows, drank new milk — in short, were delightfully 
rural and simple in their ways, and altogether enchanting to 
honest country people. 

It is true, Julian Fielding did give some hints of a most 
ungenerous opinion, that all this was a little too strong, too 
decided, to be quite natural ; and even went so far, once, as 
to mutter something about ' affectation,' ' humbug,' but Lizzie 
defended her new friends so warmly and stoutly, that he was 
obliged to give over. 



THE TWO THOMPSONS. 25 

Miss Helen Thompson, the beauty, proved to be passion- 
ately fond of riding ; so Lizzie's nice little palfrey was 
promptly placed at her service, and accepted with sun-bright 
smiles, and a regular summer shower of kisses. And 
Lizzie's handsome brother, who could desire a more gallant 
cavalier.? 

So it went. Such long, delicious, summer evening rides, 
through the green lanes and woody glens, and over the hills 

of A , with fragrant airs, and singing waters, and 

gushes of bird music, and waving shadows, and gleams of 
softened sunlight around them, and ' nobody very near.' 
What wonder if a pleasant little flirtation sprang up spon- 
taneously between these two, under the favor of circum- 
stances, the abetting influences of idleness and romance, 
and the passionate and poetical lead of the season, and with 
old Dame Nature looking on, with a quiet, complacent smile, 
as much as to say, ' Well, well ; I was young once, myself.' 

By the way, with how much indulgence have lovers ever 
been regarded in her fair domain ! How tenderly the light 
shadows shelter their path ! The frolic winds are no 
gossipy retailers of their soft sayings. The flowers smile 
to each other in the moonlight, and nod their heads in an 
ecstasy of sympathetic delight. And even the solemn and 
far-away stars wink at the youthful folly of melting glances, 
low sighs, clasped hands, and kisses. 

But all this is scarcely apropos to niy present hero and 
heroine. It is true, that, by the second week of their 
acquaintance, they recited impassioned poetry, and sung 
among the solitudes, as they rode, or strolled slowly ; and 
by the next week, conversed fondly and fluently in the 
language of flowers ; and in the next, and all following, 
pretty decided love, as love goes now-a-days, was talked, 
looked, and sighed — et viola tout. In short, and in truth, 
it was a fiirtation — nothing more; with the youth, an 
agreeable experiment ; with the belle, practice to keep her 
hand in. 

3 



26 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

In all this time, Miss Louisa, 'the other one,' was not 
forgotten, nor neglected. She cultivated an enthusiasm for 
the sublime and beautiful, and patronized nature to a degree 
quite rare and praiseworthy for a lady of her condition. In 
other words, she sketched incessantly ; and Julian was 
always on hand in the morning to escort her on her artistic 
excursions, and to show up all the fine points in the scenery 
about A . 

Thus two months went by, and then — oh ! that dark, 
mournful day — that dreadful, sorrowful, tearful parting! 
For a long time, even after the coach was at the door, poor 
Lizzie clung to her beloved friends, and would not let them 
go. Dear girls, how tenderly they strove to comfort her 
with promises of a longer visit the succeeding year, and 
with glowing pictures of the pleasures they would have in 
store for their ' darling,' on her visit to the city. And 
Julian — with what impressiveness were their farewells 
spoken to him — and how long did they look back and wave 
to him, as he stood leaning on the gate, gazing down the 
road. 

All was over — they were, indeed, gone; and mirth and 
music, the sound of hght feet and lighter laughter, had died 
out of the house ; the flush and smile of beauty, the gleam 
of white muslin, the flutter of silken scarfs, the musical 
rattle, the melodious dissonance of eager girlish voices, all 
passed away ; and in their stead, silent, and darkened, and 
lonely places every where. The day was wearisome, the 
evening intolerable, and Lizzie went to bed, with a headache, 
to cry herself to sleep. On descending from her chamber 
in the morning, she was surprised and shocked to find Julian 
busily engaged in preparing his rods for a day's trouting, 
and actually whistling at his work. 

A correspondence was kept up between the friends, rather 
a one-sided affair, it must be confessed, as Lizzie, who, like 
a heroine of old romance, had marvellous epistolary gifts, 
usually filled a generous sheet with wit and sentiment, but 



THE TWO THOMPSONS. 



%7 



seldom received more in return than the most fairy-like 
missives, on perfumed note paper, beginning with ' Dearest,' 
or ' Sweetest,' or ' Darling Lizzie,' and closing with ' in the 
greatest imaginable haste,' or 'in a monstrous hurry — 
just off for the opera — carriage at the door — ever and 
ever yours,' &c. 

It happened that the winter succeeding the memorable 

visit of the two Thompsons to A , a near relative of the 

Fieldings, a distinguished senator, being with his family at 
Washington, sent a most cordial and pressing invitation to 
Julian and Lizzie to spend some time with them at the 
capital. When they had concluded to accept this invitation, 
Lizzie was about to write all about it to her friends, the two 
Thompsons ; but her brother, the mysterious fellow, begged 
that she would not do so, and she complied with his request, 
as a matter of course. 

Lizzie's outfit was such as became the daughter of a 
country clergyman ; neat and ample, but far enough from 
rich and stylish. Yet she was little troubled by these things. 
Her affectionate heart was bounding in joyful anticipation of 
so soon meeting her kind relatives, and no less at the 
thought of seeing again her charming friends of the last 
summer, as she passed through the city, on her way South. 
' Ah, what a glad surprise it will be to them — only to think" 
of it!' 

It was a bright, though frosty winter morning, when Julian 

Fielding handed his sister out of a cab, in front of 

Hotel, on Broadway. Just at that moment, a gay group of 
ladies, escorted by two or three moustached officers, were 
strolling down the sunny pave ; and first among the party, 
gorgeous, and imposing in rich cashmeres, velvets, furs, and 
long, floating plumes, were the two Thompsons ! Lizzie 
started impetuously forward, but her brother drew her back ; 
not, however, before she had met the eyes of the dashing 
young ladies. Avoiding, with a cool and practised assur- 



28 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

ance, her eager gaze, and glancing over her travelling-dress, 
both passed majestically on, without a word or look of 
recognition. 

As they ascended the steps of the hotel, Mr. Fielding was 
ungallant enough to pronounce the sisters ' a couple of 
insolent little upstarts ; ' but Lizzie, true to her own confiding 
nature, exclaimed, ' 1 don't believe they knew us ! You 
brother, are so changed by your whiskers, and I by my 
winter dress. And, then, they are quite near-sighted. You 
remember, they both carried glasses.' 

' Some city people are often near-sighted when they meet 
country acquaintances. But, no matter.' 

Julian found it impossible to infuse a large share of his 
own suspicions into the gentle mind of his sister, who yet 
insisted on sending her card to her ' dear old friends.' 

The next day, about noon, they came, the two Thomp- 
sons, with much ' pomp and circumstance ; ' a stylish 
carriage, blood-horses, coachman and footman in livery, 
and all that. Our unsophisticated, republican Lizzie was, 
however, little awed by the state, though deeply grieved by 
the changed manner of her visiters. They met her with 
most fashionable indifference, merely extending to her the 
tips of their gloved fingers, when she would have folded 
them to her warm, honest heart, throbbing with alternate 
hope and fear, but most of all, with love. 

Lizzie grew faint, then proud, and then indignant, and 
remained almost silent, while her friends rattled on, she 
knew not what, of up-town gossip. She was inexpressibly 
relieved when she heard her brother's step at the door. 
Miss Louisa, who happened to be standing, curtsied at his 
entrance, and Miss Helen, who was seated, nodded her 
head, and showed her immaculate teeth in a patronizing 
smile, but did not proffer her hand. Julian's lip curled 
slightly, as he remembered how often he had been allowed 
to hold that hand in his, and even to raise it to his lips, in 
the season of the summer flirtation. 



I 



THE TWO THOMPSONS. 



29 



* Oh, Mr. Fielding,' lisped the beauty, ' how good of you 
to bring our darling Lizzie to our noisy city, even for a day 
or two. But you cannot conceive how much we are grieved 
at not being able to take her home with us, at once. The 
truth is, we are just off for Washington, where papa is to 
take us to spend the remainder of the season.' 

Lizzie was about to remark that this was also their own 
destination ; but she caught her brother's eye, and was 
silent. 

About three weeks from this meeting and parting, the 
two Thompsons found themselves, for the first time, in the 
gallery of the Senate, at Washington. They had arrived at 
the capital a day or two before. 

Suddenly, Miss Louisa whispered to her sister, and 
directed her gaze to where, a little distance off, was sitting, 
in the midst of a most distingue group, by the side of the 

elegant wife of Senator , no other than our Lizzie, 

listening intently to an eloquent speech from the dis- 
tinguished statesman himself. 

After this, as the reader may apprehend, the poor girl 
was absolutely overwhelmed by the visits and heartless 
attentions of her ' affectionate friends,' as her cousins called 
them ; and even the obdurate Julian was often playfully 
reminded of ' our old friendship,' and ' those sweet rides,' 
and ' that wicked flirtation with sister.' 

Strange to say, the two Thompsons being only rich, did 
not possess the entree into the best society of the capital, 
where their little friend was already quite as much of a 
belle as her gentle, retiring nature would admit. 

One morning, toward the last of the season, Lizzie re- 
ceived the following note from the sisters : 

' Lizzie, Darling : Will you and your heau frere come 
to us to-night? We are to have a little soiree — a very 
select affair. Ah! chere amie, you really must come. It 
would be too stupid without you. We could not survive a 



30 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

refusal. Your charming cousins will receive more formal 
notes. 

* Your sisters, Nell and Lou.' 

Lizzie's reply ran thus : 

' My dear Friends : We regret to say that it is out of 
our power to accept your kind invitation to your soiree, 
which, I know, will be very delightful, as we are ' due,' as 
brother says, at the Russian Minister's to-night. 

' Yours, E. Fielding.' 

The two Thompsons held their soiree ; and a sorry affair 
it proved, as all the world was at M. Bodisco's. Alas ! dear 
girls, they had not even been apprised that Madame 
V Emhassadrice received on that evening. 

Thus were these amiable young ladies taught a whole- 
some, though painful moral lesson, which, I am happy to 
say, they have laid to heart. They are now careful never 
to indulge themselves in cutting rural acquaintances, before 
they have inquired into their true position and family 
connections. 

It is rumored that Lizzie Fielding will spend yet other 
sessions at Washington, where she once shone a ' bright, 
particular star,' but that the next time she will appear as the 
bride of an Honorable member from her native State, a 
distinguished lawyer, with whom her brother Julian is study- 
ing his profession. This summer she will spend at her 

beloved home, the pleasant parsonage of A ; but I do 

not think that she will there have the honor of entertaining 
her ' dear old friends,' the two Thompsons. 



.V . 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 



The villagers of N well remember the sad morn- 
ing when the bell tolled for the death of Emma, the once 
beautiful, lovely, and beloved wife of Judge Allston. Many 
a face was shadowed, many a heart was in mourning on that 
day; for she who had gone so early to her rest, had 
endeared herself to many by her goodness, gentleness, and 
the beauty of her blameless life. She had been declining 
for a long time, and yet she seemed to have died suddenly 
at last, so difficult, so almost impossible it was for those who 
loved her to prepare their hearts for that fearful bereave- 
ment, that immeasurable loss. 

Mrs. Allston left four children — Isabel, the eldest, an 
intellectual, generous-hearted girl of seventeen, not beauti- 
ful, but thoroughly noble-looking; Frank, a fine boy of 
twelve; Emma, ' the beauty,' a child of seven ; and Eddie, 
the baby, a delicate infant, only about a year old. 

Judge Allston was a man of naturally strong and quick 
feelings, but one who had acquired a remarkable control 
over exptession, a calmness and reserve of manner often 
mistaken for hauteur and insensibility. He was alone with 
his wife when she died. Isabel, wearied with long watching, 
had lain down for a little rest, and was sleeping with the 
children — and the mother, even in that hour, tenderly 
caring for them, would not that they should be waked. The 
last struggle was brief but terrible ; the spirit seemed torn 



32 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

painfully from its human tenement — the immortal rent its 
way forth from imprisoning mortality. Yet he, the husband 
and lover, preserved his calmness through all ; and when 
the last painful breath had been panted out on the still air of 
midnight, he laid the dear head he had been supporting 
against his breast, gently down on the pillow — kissed the 
cold, damp forehead and still lips of the love of his youth, 
and then summoning an attendant, turned away and sought 
his room, where alone, and in darkness, he wrestled with 
the angel of sorrow — wept the swift tears of his anguish, 
and lacerated his heart with all the vain regrets and wild 
reproaches of bereaved affection. But with the coming of 
morning, came serenity and resignation; and then he led 
his children into the silent chamber where lay their mother, 
already clad in the garments of the grave. Then too he 
was calm — holding the fainting Isabel in his arms, and 
gently hushing the passionate outcries of Emma and Frank. 
He was never seen to weep until the first earth fell upon the 
coffin, and then he covered up his face and sobbed aloud. 

Mrs. Allston was not laid in the village churchyard, but 
was buried, at her own request, within an arbor, at the end 
of the garden. She said it w^ould not seem that she was 
thrust out from her home, if the light from her own window 
shone out toward her grave ; and that she half believed the 
beloved voice of her husband, and the singing of her 
daughter, and the laughter of her children would come to 
her, where she lay, with her favorite flowers, about her, and 
the birds she had fed and protected building their nests above 
her in the vines. 

When the stunning weight of sorrow^, its first distraction 
and desolation had been taken from the life and spirit of 
Isabel Allston, one clear and noble purpose took complete 
possession of her mind. She would fill the dear place of 
her mother in the household — she would console and care 
for her poor father — she would love yet more tenderly her 
young brother and sister, and bind up their bruised hearts. 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 33 

SO early crushed by affliction — she would be a mother to 
the babe, who had almost felt the bosom which had been its 
first resting-place, grow cold against its little cheek, and 
hard and insensible to its ' waxen touches ;' now that the 
voice which had hushed it to its first slumbers had sunk low, 
faltered and grown still forever, and the kind eyes which 
first shone over its awaking — the stars of love's heaven — 
had suddenly darkened and gone out in death. 

After this, it was, indeed, beautiful to see Isabel in her 
home. There she seemed to live many lives in one. She 
superintended all domestic affairs and household arrange- 
ments with admirable courage and judgment. Her father 
never missed any of his accustomed comforts, and her 
brother and sister were as ever neatly dressed, and well 
taught and controlled. But on the baby she lavished most 
of her attention and loving care. She took him to her own 
bed — she dressed and bathed, and fed him, and carried 
him with her in all her walks and rides. And she was soon 
richly rewarded by seeing little Eddie become from an 
exceedingly small, fragile infant, a well-sized, blooming 
boy, not stout or remarkably vigorous indeed, but quite 
healthful and active. The child was passionately fond of 
his ' mamma,' as he was taught to call Isabel. Though 
rather imperious and rebellious toward others, he yielded to 
a word from her, at any time. At evening, she could sum- 
mon him from the wildest play, to prepare him for his bath 
and bed, and afterward he would twine his little arms about 
her neck, and cover her cheeks, lips, and forehead, with his 
good-night kisses, then droop his sunny head on her 
shoulder, and fall asleep, often with one of her glossy 
ringlets twined about his smaU, rosy fingers. At the very 
break of day, the little fellow would be awake — striding 
over poor Isabel, as she vainly strove for another brief, 
delicious doze — pulling at her long, black eyelashes, and 
peeping under the drowsy lids, or shouting into her half- 
dreaming ear his vociferous ' Good morning! ' 



34 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

And Frank and Emma found ever in their sister-mother 
ready sympathy, patient sweetness, and the most affectionate 
counsel. They were never left to feel the crushing neglect, 
the loneliness and desolation of orphanage ; and they were 
happy and affectionate in return for all dear Isabel's good- 
ness and faithfulness. Yet were they never taught to forget 
their mother, gone from them — neither to speak of her 
always with sorrow and solemnity. Her name was often 
on their young lips, and her memory kept green and 
glowing in their tender hearts. Her grave, in the garden 
arbor — what a dear, familiar place ! There sprang the first 
blue violets of spring — there bloomed the last pale chiysan- 
themums of autumn — there sweet Sabbath hymns and 
prayers were repeated by childish voices, which struggled 
up through tears — there, morning after morning, were 
reverently laid bright, fragrant wreaths, which kept quite 
fresh till far into the hot summer-day on that shaded mound, 
— and there, innumerable times, was the beloved name 
kissed in sorrowful emotion, by those warm lips, which half 
shrank as they touched the cold marble, so like her lips 
when th^y had last kissed them. 

Thus passed two years over that bereaved family — over 
Judge Allston, grown a cheerful man, though one still 
marked by great reserve of manner — over his noble 
daughter, Isabel, happy in the perfect performance of her 
whole duty — and over the children, the good and beautiful 
children, whom an angel-mother might have smiled upon 
from heaven. 

It happened that this third summer of his widowhood, 
Judge Allston spent more time than ever before at the city 

of S , the county-seat, and the place where lay most 

of his professional duties. But it was rumored that there 
was an unusual attraction in that town — one apart from, and 
quite independent of, the claims of business and the pur- 
suits of ambition. It was said that the thoughtful and 
dignified judge had sometimes been seen walking and riding 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 35 

with a certain tall and slender woman, in deep mourning, 
probably a widow, but still young and beautiful. 

At length, an officious family friend came to Isabel, and 
informed her, without much delicacy or circumlocution, of 
the prevalent rumors ; thus giving her the first inkling of a 
state of affairs, which must have a serious bearing on iier 
own welfare and happiness — her first intimation that she 
might soon be called upon to resign her place to a stranger 
— a step-mother ! This had been her secret fear ; to guard 
against the necessity of this, she had struggled with grief 
and weariness, and manifold discouragements — had labored 
uncomplainingly, and prayed without ceasing for patience 
and strength. 

Pale and still listened Isabel, while her zealous friend 
went on, warming momently with her subject, commenting 
severely on the heartless machinations of ' the widow,' who, 
though only a poor music-teacher, had set herself, with her 
coquettish arts, to insnare a man of the wealth and station 
and years of Judge Allston. Isabel was silent : but she 
writhed at the thought of her father, with all his intellect 
and knowledge of the world, becoming the dupe of a vain, 
desio-ninor woman. When her visiter had left, Isabel flew 
to her room, flung herself into a chair, and covering her face 
with her hands, wept as she had not wept since the first dark 
days of her sorrow. Isabel had grown up with a deep, 
peculiar prejudice against step-mothers ; probably from 
knowing that the childhood and girlhood of her own idol- 
ized mother had been cruelly darkened and saddened by the 
harshness and injustice of one ; and now, there was bitter- 
ness and sharp pain in the thought that those dear children, 
for she cared little for herself, must be subjected to the ' iron 
rule' of an unloving and alien heart. 

^ut she soon resolutely calmed down the tumult of feel- 
ing, as she would fain keep her trouble from the children, 
while there still remained a blessed uncertainty. Yet she 
slept little that night, but folded Eddie, her babe, closer and 



36 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

closer to her breast, and wept over him, till his light curls 
were heavy with her tears. 

The next morning, which was Tuesday, while Isabel sat 
at breakfast with the children, a letter was brought in, directed 
to her. It was from her father, at S . Isabel trem- 
bled as she read, and at the last grew very pale, and leaned 
her head on her hand. As she had feared, that letter 
contained a brief and dignified announcement of the ap- 
proaching marriage of her father. There was no natural 
embarrassment exhibited ; there was no apology made for 
this being the first intimation to his family, of an event of so 
great moment to them ; such things were not in his way — 
not in character. He wrote : ' Cecilia Weston, whom I have 
now known nearly two years, and of whom you may have 
heard me speak, is a noble woman, the only one I have ever 
seen whom I considered fully competent to fill your dear 
mother's place. * * * We are to have a strictly private 
wedding, on Saturday morning next, and will be with you 
in the evening. To you, Isabel, my dear child, I trust I 
need ^ive no charges to show towards Mrs. Allston, from 
the first, if not the tenderness and affection of a daughter, 
the respect and consideration due the wife of your father. 
This, at least, I shall exact from all my children, if it be 
not, as I fervently hope it will be, given willingly and grace- 
fully.' 

"When Isabel found strength and voice to read this letter 
of her father's aloud, the unexpected intelligence which it 
contained, was received with blank amazement and troubled 
silence. This was first broken by the passionate and impe- 
tuous little Emma, who exclaimed, with flashing eyes and 
gleaming teeth, ' I won't have a new mother ! I won't have 
any mother but Isabel. I hate that Cecilia Weston, and I'll 
tell her so, the very first thing! I won't let her kiss me, 
and I won't kiss papa if he brings her here. Oh, sister, 
don't ask her to take off* her things when she comes, and 
maybe she won't stay all night ! ' 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 37 

'Hush, hush, darling !' said Isabel, 'I think it probable 
you will like her very much ; I hear that she is a very 
beautiful woman.' 

' No, I won't like her ! I don't believe she is pretty at 
all ; but a cross, ugly old thing, that will scold me and beat 
me, and make me wear frights of dresses, and maybe cut 
off my curls ! ' 

This last moving picture was quite too much for ' Beauty,' 
and she burst into tears, covering her ringletted head all up 
with her inversed pinafore. 

Frank, now a tall, noble-spirited boy of fourteen, was 
calm and manly under these trying circumstances, but ex- 
pressed a stern resolve, which he clinched by an impressive 
classical oath, never, never to call the unwelcome stranger 
'■mother.'' ' Mrs. Allston ' would be polite; ' Mrs. Allston ' 
would be sufficiently respectful, and by that name, and that 
only, would he call her, Isabel said nothing, but inwardly 
resolved thus herself to address the young wife of her father. 

During this scene, little Eddie, who only understood 
enough to perceive that something was wrong, some tpouble 
brewing, ran to his mamma, and hiding his face in her lap, 
began to cry very bitterly and despairingly. But Isabel 
soon reconciled him to life, by administering saccharine 
consolation from the sugar-bowl before her. 

It was, finally, with saddened and anxious spirits the little 
aflectionate family circle broke up that morning. 

\Vith the bustle and hurry of necessary preparations, the 
week passed rapidly and brought Saturday evening, when 
the Allstons, with a few family friends, were awaiting the 
arrival of the Judge and his fair bride. 

There were not many marks of festivity in the handsome 
drawing-room ; there was somewhat more light, perhaps, 
and a few more flowers than usual. Isabel, who had never 
laid off mourning for her mother, wore to-night a plain 
black silk, with a rich lace cape, and white rose-buds in her 
4 



38 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

hair ; Emma was dressed in a light-blue barege, with her 
pet curls floating about her waist. 

At length, rather late in the evening, a carriage was heard 
coming up the avenue, and soon after Judge Allston entered 
the drawing-room, with a tall and slender lady leaning on 
his arm. Shrinking from the glare of light, and with her 
head modestly bowed, Mrs. Allston entered, more as a timid 
and ill-assured guest, than as the newly appointed mistress 
of that elegant mansion. Isabel advanced immediately to 
be presented ; offered her hand alone, but that cordially ; 
made some polite inquiries concerning the journey, and then 
proceeded to assist the bride in removing her bonnet and 
shawl. She then called Emma, who advanced shyly, eye- 
ing the enemy askance. She extended her hand, in a half- 
diffident, half-defiant manner ; but Mrs. Allston, clasping it 
in both of hers, bent down and kissed her, smiling, as she 
did so, on the loveliness of that face. The blood shot up to 
the very brow of the child, as she turned quickly and walked 
to a distant window-seat, where she sat, and looked out upon 
the garden. It was a moon-light night, and she could see 
the arbor and the gleaming of the white tombstone within, 
and she wondered sadly if her mother, lying there in her 
grave, knew about this woinan^ and was troubled for her 
children's sake. 

Frank was presented by his father, with much apparent 
pride, to his young step-mother, who looked searchingly, 
though kindly, into his handsome, yet serious face. 

It was some time before Isabel found the opportunity 
closely to observe the person and manner of her father's 
bride. Mrs. Allston was, as I have said, tall, but would not 
have been observably so, perhaps, except for the extreme 
delicacy of her figure. She was graceful and gentle in her 
movements — not absolutely beautiful in face, but very 
lovely, with a most winning smile, and a sort of earnest sad- 
ness in the expression of her soft, hazel eyes, which Isabel 
recognized at once as a spell of deep power — the spell 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 



39 



which had enthralled the heart of her thoughtful and unsus- 
ceptible father. She looked about twenty-five, and did not 
look unsuited to Judge Allston, who, with the glow of happi- 
ness lighting up his face, and sparkling from his fine, dark 
eyes, appeared to all far younger and handsomer than usual. 

Isabel felt that her father was not entirely satisfied with 
the reception which his wife had met from his children; but 
he did not express any dissatisfaction that night, or ever 
after. 

It was a happy circumstance for Isabel, in her embarrassed 
position, that the next day was the Sabbath ; as going to 
church and attending to her household duties absorbed her 
time and attention ; thus preventing any awkward tete-d- 
tetes with one whose very title of step- mother had arrayed 
her heart against her in suspicion, and determined, though 
unconscious, antagonism. 

On Sunday afternoon, about the sunset hour. Judge 
Allston had been wont to go with his children to visit 
the grave of their mother; but this Sabbath evening, I 
need hardly say, he was not with them there. 

' How cool and shadowy looks that arbor, at the end of 
the garden, where Miss Allston and the children are ! Let 
us join them, dear Charles,' said Mrs. Allston to her hus- 
band, as they two sat at the pleasant south window of their 
chamber. Judge Allston hesitated a moment, and then 
said, in a low tone, ' That arbor, dear Cecilia, is the place 
where my Emma lies buried.' The young wife looked 
startled and somewhat troubled, but said nothing. 

On Monday, Isabel, after showing her step-mother over 
the house, resigned into her hands the house-keeper's keys, 
with all the privileges and dignities of domestic authority. 

Day after day went by, and Isabel preserved the same 
cold, guarded manner toward her step-mother, though she 
often met those soft, hazel eyes fixed upon her, with a 
half-pleading, half-reproachful look, which she found it 
difficult to resist. Frank and Emma still remained shy 



40 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

and distant, and ' the baby,' constitutionally timid, would 
scarcely look at the stranger-lady, who sought in an anxious, 
ill-assured way, to win its love and confidence. As little 
Eddie shrank from those delicate inviting hands, and clung 
about Isabel, she would clasp him yet closer to her heart, 
and kiss his bright head with passionate fondness. 

On Friday afternoon, Mrs. Allston's piano arrived. This 
was a great event in the family, for Isabel did not play, 
though she sang very sweetly, and Frank and Emma had 
a decided taste for music. Mrs. AUston was gifted with a 
delicious voice, which she had faithfully cultivated, and she 
played with both skill and feeling. 

All the evening sat Judge Allston, gazing proudly and 
tenderly upon the performer, and listening with all his soul. 
Isabel was charmed in spite of her fears and prejudices, 
and the children were half beside themselves with delight. 

The next morning, as she came in from her walk, hearing 
music in the parlor, Isabel entered, and found her step- 
mother playing and singing the ' May Queen,' with Emma 
close at her side, and Frank turning over the leaves of the 
music. The touching words of the song had already 
brought tears, and when it was finished, Mrs. Allston sud- 
denly dashed off into a merry waltz, and presently Frank 
was whirling his pretty sister round and round the room, 
to those wild, exhilarating notes. When the playing ceased, 
'Oh, thank you, mother!'' said Emma, going up to Mrs. 
Allston. In a moment, the step-mother's arms were about 
the waist, and her lips pressed against the lips of the child. 
That name, and the glad embrace which followed, struck 
the foreboding heart of Isabel. Her eyes involuntarily 
sought the face of Frank, and she was not displeased to 
remark the lowering of his brow and the slight curl of his 

lip. 

But the evening of the very next day, Isabel, on entering 
the parlor, found Frank alone with his beautiful step-mother, 
sitting on a low ottoman at her side, as she half reclined on 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 41 

a sofa, and leaning his head against her knee, while her 
soft, white fingers were threading his wavy, luxuriant hair. 
Isabel, giving one startled glance at the two, who were 
chatting pleasantly and familiarly together, crossed the 
room, seated herself at a table, and took up a book. Pre- 
sently, Frank rose, and came and stood by her side. She 
looked up and murmured, with a slightly reproachful smile, 
' Et tu Brute.'' The boy colored, and soon after left the 
room. 

Thus the days wore on ; Isabel feeling her treasures 
wrested one after another from the fond and jealous hold 
of her heart ; sorrowing in secret over her loss, and still 
pressing her mother's holiest legacy, her child, dear little 
Eddie, close, and closer to her breast. 

One afternoon, when the hour came for their daily ride, 
she missed the child from her room. After looking through 
parlor, kitchen, and hall, and calling through the garden, 
she sought Mrs. Allston's chamber, from whence, as she 
knocked at the door, she heard the sound of singing and 
laughter. ' Come in ! ' said a light musical voice. She 
opened the door hastily, and there sat little traitorous Eddie, 
in his step-mother's lap, playing with her long, auburn 
ringlets, while she sung him merry songs and nursery- 
rhymes. 

' Eddie ! ' exclaimed Isabel, somewhat sharply, ' you must 
come with mamma, and be dressed for a ride.' 

' No, no,' cried the perverse child, ' I don't want to 
ride — I'd rather stay with my pretty new mamma, and 
hear her sing about " Little Bo-peep." ' 

* No, my dear, you must go with your sister,' said Mrs. 
Allston, striving to set the little fellow down. 

Isabel advanced to take him, but he buried his face in his 
step-mother's lap, and screamed, ' Go away, go away ; I 
love this mamma best — I won't go to ride with you ! ' 

Pale as death, Isabel turned hurriedly and passed from 
the room. She almost flew through the house and garden, 
4* 



42 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

to the arbor, to the grave of her mother. There she flung 
herself upon the turf, and clasped the mound, and pressed 
her poor, wounded heart against it, and wept aloud. 

' They have all left me ! ' she cried ; ' I am robbed of all 
love, all comfort ; I am lonely and desolate. Oh, mother, 
mother ! ' 

While thus she lay, sorrowing with all the bitterness of 
a new bereavement, she was startled by a deep sigh, and 
looking up, she beheld Mrs. Allston standing at her side. 
Instantly she sprang to her feet, exclaiming, ' Have I then 
no refuge ? Is not even this spot sacred from officious and 
unwelcome intrusion ? ' 

' Oh, forbear, I entreat ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Allston, with a 
sudden gush of tears. ' Pray do not speak thus to me ! — 
you do not know me. I seek to love you, to be loved by 
you — this is all my sin.' 

Isabel was softened by those tears, and murmured some 
half-articulate apology for the passionate feeling which she 
had exhibited. 

' Dear Isabel,' said her step-mother, ' will you hear my 
Httle history, and then judge whether I have erred in assum- 
ing the relation which I now bear towards you ? ' 

Isabel bowed her head in assent, and Mrs. Allston seated 
herself in the arbor; but Isabel remained standing, with a 
firm-set lip and her arms folded. 

' ] fear,' began Cecilia, ' that your father has not been as 
communicative and confidential with you as he should have 
been. I heard from him this morning, with much surprise, 
that he had told you very little concerning me and our first 
acquaintance. He said that you never seemed to wish for 
his confidence, and he could not thrust it upon you. I know 
that you must wonder greatly how your beloved father could 
choose a woman like me — poor and without station, or 
high connections.' 

' No,' replied Isabel, coldly ; ' on the contrary, I wonder 
most that you, so young and richly endowed by nature. 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 



43 



could prefer a man of the years and character of my 
father. I know not what there is in him for a beautiful 
woman to fancy.' 

'Ah, Isabel,' said Mrs. Allston, looking up reproachfully, 
' I never fancied your father. It is with a worthier, deeper, 
holier feeling that I regard him.' 

Isabel sat down on the rustic seat near her step-mother, 
who continued, in a low but fervent tone. 

' Yes, Isabel ; I love your father, dearly love him ; he is 
the only man I have ever loved.' 

' What ! ' exclaimed Isabel ; ' were you not, then, a 
widow when you married him ? ' 

' Why no, dear. Why did you suppose it ? ' 

'I heard so — at least, I heard that you were in deep 
mourning.' 

' That was for my mother,' replied Mrs. Allston, with a 
quivering lip ; ' yet, until now, I have not been out of 
mourning for many, many years. I have seen much sor- 
row, Isabel.' 

The warm-hearted girl drew nearer to her step-mother, 
who, after a brief pause, continued — 

' My father, who was a lawyer of S , died while I 

was quite young — a school-girl, away from home, already 
pursuing with ardor the study of music. He left my mother 
very little besides the house in which he lived. My only 
brother, Alfred, a noble boy, in whom our best hopes were 
centred, had entered college only the year before father 
died. Then it was that my mother, with the courage of a 
true heroine and the devotion of a martyr, resolved to 
remove neither of her children from their studies, but, by 
her own unassisted labor, to keep me at my school and 
Alfred in college. 

' She opened a large boarding house in S , princi- 
pally for gentlemen of the bar ; and, almost from the first, 
was successful. I remained two years longer at school, 
when a lucrative situation was offered me, as a teacher of 



44 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

music, in the family of a wealthy southern Senator. I 
parted from my mother, from dear Alfred, and went with 
the Ashtons to Georgia. There I remained year after year, 
ever toiling cheerfully in the blessed hope of returning 
North, with the means of restoring my beloved mother to 
her former social position, and of freeing her from toil and 
care for the remainder of her days. This was the one 
constant desire of my heart — the one great purpose of my 
life. I thought not of pleasure, I cared not for distinction, 
or admiration, or love. I thought only of her ; my patient, 
self-sacrificing, angel mother.' 

Here Isabel drew nearer, and laid her hand in that of her 
step-mother, who pressed it gently as she continued — 

'Brother Alfred, immediately on leaving college, com- 
menced the study of the law. I shall ever fear that he 
confined himself too closely and studied too intensely. His 
constitution was delicate, like his father's ; and, after a year 
or two, his health, never vigorous, began to fail. Mother 
finally wrote to me that she was anxious about him ; though 
she added, perhaps her affection for the beloved one made 
her needlessly fearful. Yet I was alarmed, and hastened 
home some months before my engagement had expired. I 
had then been absent five years ; but I had seen mother and 
Alfred once in that time, when they had met me on the 
sea-shore. 

' It was a sultry afternoon in August when I reached 

S . I shall never forget how wretchedly long and 

weary seemed the last few miles, and how eagerly I sprang 
down the carriage-steps at last. I left my baggage at the 
hotel, and ran over to my mother's house alone. I entered 
without knocking, and went directly to our mother's little 
private parlor — the room of the household. I opened the 
door very gently, so as to surprise them. At the first 
glance, I thought the room was empty ; but on looking 
again, 1 saw some one extended on the familiar, chintz- 
covered sofa. It was Alfred, asleep there. I went softly 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 45 

up and looked down upon his face. Oh, my God, what a 
change! It was thm and white, save a small red spot in 
either cheek. One hand lay half-buried in his dark, chest- 
nut curls, which alone preserved their old beauty, and that 
hand — how slender and delicate it had grown, and how 
distinct was every blue vein, even the smallest ! As I stood 
there, heart-wrung with sudden grief, my tears fell so fast 
on his face that he awoke, and half- raised himself, looking 
up with a bewildered expression. Just then, dear mother 
came in, and we all embraced one another, and thanked 
God out of the overflowing fullness of our hearts. As I 
looked at Alfred then, his eyes were so bright and his smile 
so glad — so like the old smile — I took courage again ; but 
he suddenly turned away and coughed lightly — but such a 
cough ! It smote upon my heart like a knell. 

' When I descended from my chamber that evening, after 
laying aside my travelling-dress, I found a gentleman, a 
stranger, sitting by Alfred's side reading to him, in a low, 
pleasant voice. That stranger, Isabel, was your father — 
Alfred's best, most beloved friend. 

' I will not pain your heaA't by dwelling on our great 
sorrow, as we watched that precious life, the treasury of 
many hopes and much love, passing away. With the fading 
and falling of the leaf, with the dying of the flowers, he 
died ! ' 

Here Mrs. Allston paused, and covered her face with her 
hands, while the tears slid slowly through her fingers. And 
she wept not alone. At length she continued — 

' I have since felt that with poor Alfred's last dying kiss, 
the chill of death entered into dear mother's heart; for she 
never was well after that night. Though she sorrowed 
bitterly for that only son, so good and so beautiful, she said 
she wished to live for my sake. Yet vain was that meek 
wish — vain were my love and care — vain the constant, 
agonized pleading of my soul with the Giver of life. She 
failed and drooped daily, and within a year, she was laid 



46 GREENWOOD LEAVES. ' 

beside father, and very near to Alfred. She died, and left 
me alone — alone in the wide world ! Oh, how often, dear 
Isabel, have I, like you, cried out with that exceeding bitter 
cry of the orphan, " Oh, mother, mother!" ' 

Here Isabel flung her arms around her step-mother, and 
pressed her lips against her cheek. 

' In all this time,' pursued Cecilia, ' my chief adviser and 
consoler was the early friend of my mother, the generous 
patron of my brother — your father, Isabel. And when the 
first fearful days of my sorrow had gone by, and he came 
to me in the loneliness and desolation of my life, and strove 
to give me comfort and courage — telling me at last that he 
needed my love, even the love of my poor, crushed heart — 
then I felt that in loving him and his, I might hope for 
happiness ever more. But ah ! if in loving him — in 
becoming his wife, I have brought unhappiness to those 
near to him, and darkened the light of their home, I am 
indeed miserable ! ' 

Oh, do not say so — do not say so!' exclaimed Isabel. 
' You have won all our hearts. Have you not seen how the 
children are drawn towards you — even little Eddie, my 
habe 7 I have not yet called you by her name — I do not 
know that I can so call you here, but I can and will love 
you, and we shall all be very happy ; and, by God's help, 
" kindly affectioned one to another ! " ' 

' Ah, my dear girl,' replied Mrs. Allston, with a sweet 
smile, ' I do not ask you to call me by a name of so much 
sacredness and dignity ; — only love me and confide in me 
— lean upon my heart, and let me be to you as an elder 
sister.' 

******** 

The evening had come, and Mrs. Allston, Isabel, and the 
children were assembled in the pleasant family-parlor, 
awaiting the return of Judge Allston from his office. Isabel 
was holding little Eddie on her knee. The child had 
already repeatedly begged pardon for his naughtiness, and 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 



47 



was as full as ever of his loving demonstrations. Cecilia 
was, as usual, seated at the piano, playing half-uncon- 
sciously, every now and then glancing impatiently out of 
the window into the gathering darkness. Isabel sat down 
the baby-boy, and going up to her, said — 

' Will you play the " Old Arm-Chair ^^^ for me ? ' 
' If you will sing with me,' replied Cecilia, with a smile. 
The two began with voices somewhat tremulous, but they 
sang on till they came to the passage — 

* I 've sat and watched her, day by day, 
While her eye grew dim — ' 

here they both broke down. 

Cecilia rose and wound her arm about Isabel's waist, and 
Isabel leaned her head on Cecilia's shoulder, and they wept 
together. At that moment, Judge Allston entered, and after 
a brief pause of bewilderment, advanced with a smile, and 
clasped them both in one embrace. He said not a word 
then ; but afterward, when he bade Isabel good-night, at the 
foot of the stairway, he kissed her more tenderly than usual, 
saying, as he did so, ' God bless you, my daughter !' 



THE IRISH PATRIOTS OF '48. 



The rebel patriots of Ireland, O'Brien, Meagher, McMa- 
nus, O'Donohue, and others, at this present time, and in 
their present position, form a spectacle of fearful interest. 
In the earnest, concentrated gaze of the world they stand ; 
for them the hearts of millions throb with irrepressible ad- 
miration ; for them tears of mournful apprehension and 
indignant sorrow fall, and prayers of passionate entreaty 
ascend. But from no Christian country goes forth to them 
a more full and perfect sympathy than from our own, the 
the land of a Washington, the asylum of an Emmett. 
They seem to us so much the incarnation of the spirit of 
Irish freedom, that we can but fear that in their exile, or 
death, she shall be exiled or perish forever. But no — as 
God liveth, no ! Rather shall the sacrifice of their young 
lives, with all that made them beautiful and glorious, gift 
their dying country with ' newness of life,' with vigor and 
power, and a hope grand, solemn, and eternal as the heavens. 
While she may number such heroic sons among her living, 
or her dead, she may not, she will not despair, though she 
clank chains on every limb — though she were bound to the 
earth with a thousand thongs. 

Whether these heroes meet the death of shame upon the 
scaffold, or drag out a wretched existence as the galley- 
slaves of tyranny, their imperishable names, exalted and 
sanctified, shall pass into the watch-words of the brave, and 



THE IRISH PATRIOTS OF '48. 49 

become the rallying cry of liberty throughout the world — 
in the last great contest of freedom with oppression, shall 
lead the battle-van like living heroes, and mingle in the 
grand anthem which rings to heaven in the hour of victory. 
Oh ! immortality of love, and gratitude, and reverence ! — 
oh ! godlike apotheosis ! — will not the assurance of this 
bear them up through all, while they toil through sultry 
days, or sigh through weary nights, where the wild wastes 
of southern seas stretch around them, or when the more 
terrible sea of human heads surges about the scaffold, in 
that hour when the life-blood of their brave hearts must be 
poured forth a mournful oblation on the ruined and dese- 
crated shrine of their country's liberty ? 

Where, in all the annals of history or the records of 
eloquence, may be found a nobler expression of devoted 
and undaunted heroism than the last vindication of young 
Meagher.? Grand in its simplicity, beautiful in its truth, 
and solemn in its prophecy, it must live while a human 
heart throbs for freedom, or reverences her defenders. How 
lofty, yet how mournfully tender is the conclusion ; his 
country should lay these words to her heart as dear and 
sacred things, to be pondered oft and treasured forever: — 

' My lords, you may deem this language unbecoming in 
me, and perchance it may seal my fate ; but I am here to 
speak the truth, whatever it may cost. I am here to regret 
nothing that 1 have ever done, to retract nothing that I have 
ever said. I am not here to crave, with lying lip, the life I 
consecrate to the liberty of my country. Far from it even 
here, where the thief, the libertine, the murderer, have left 
their foot-prints in the dust ; here, in this spot, where the 
shadow of death surrounds me, and from which I see an 
early grave in an unannointed soil open .to receive me ; 
even here, encircled by these terrors, that hope which beck- 
oned me to the perilous sea on which I have been wrecked, 
still consoles, animates and enraptures me. No ! I do not 
despair of my poor old country — her peace, her liberty, 
5 



50 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

her glory. For that country I can now do no more than 
bid her hope. To lift this island up — to make her a bene- 
factor to humanity instead of what she is — the meanest 
beggar in the world — to restore to her her native powers 
and her ancient constitution — this has been my ambition, 
and this ambition has been my crime. Judged by the 
laws of England, I know this crime entails the penalty of 
death. 

' But the history of Ireland explains my crime, and justi- 
fies it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal ' — (and 
turning round toward his fellow-prisoner, McManus) — 
'you are no criminal' — (and to O'Donohue) — 'you are 
no criminal, and we deserve no punishment. Judged by 
that history, the treason of which I have been convicted, 
loses all its guilt — is sanctioned as a duty — will be enno- 
bled as a sacrifice. With these sentiments, my lord, I 
await the sentence of the court. Having done what I feel 
to be my duty ; having spoken now, as I did on every 
occasion during my short life, what I felt to be the truth, I 
now bid farewell to the country of my birth, my passion 
and my death ; that country whose misfortunes have in- 
voked my sympathies ; whose factions I sought to still ; 
whose intellect I prompted to a lofty aim ; whose freedom 
has been my fatal dream. I offer to that country, as a 
pledge of the love I bear her, and the sincerity with which 
I thought and spoke, and struggled for her freedom, the life 
of a young heart ; and with that life all the hopes, the 
honors, the endearments of a happy and an honorable home. 
Pronounce, then, my lords, the sentence which the law 
directs, and I trust I will be prepared to meet it, and to 
meet its execution. I trust, too, that I shall be prepared 
with a pure heart to appear before a higher tribunal — a 
tribunal where a Judge of infinite goodness, as well as of 
infinite justice, will preside ; and where, my lords, many, 
many of the judgments of this world will be reversed.' 

How dare England even condemn such men to death at 



THE IRISH PATRIOTS OF '48. ^4 

this time, when the roused elements of justice and freedom 
are rocking and convulsing the world ! — the day when the 
whole air is filled with strange, fearful sounds and confused 
voices of warning and dismay ! There is a volcanic ele- 
ment at work in Ireland still — darkly and silently at work, 
but which shall yet 

' Break on the darkness of her thick despair, 
Like Etna on deep midnight — lighting up, 
With lurid glow, oppression's pall-like clouds ; 
And pouring madly forth a lava tide 
To scathe and whelm the seats of ancient wrong ! ' 

Let England beware ! Patriotism is an immortal spirit ; 
heroism an eternal truth. The political as well as the 
religious martyr but gives a higher beauty, a more solemn 
grandeur to the cause for which he dies. Eighteen hundred 
years ago, on Calvary's sacred mount, was taught a sublime 
lesson of self-sacrifice, which is but repeated whenever and 
wherever man dies for man. 

It is in vain to say that the sacrificed life of the patriot is 
ever throian away. His blood, whether poured upon the 
battle-field, or reeking from the scaffold, is not drank up by 
the insensible earth and then forgotten ; but from every 
drop may be said to spring an armed defender, or a fervid 
apostle of the faith he taught ; or it is exhaled to heaven 
and descends in a dew of terrible vengeance upon his ene- 
mies. His death quickens the life of nations. His memory 
fills the spirit of youth with grand aspirations, kindles 
a quenchless fire in his heart, puts an invincible strength into 
his arm : it becomes to the brave almost an object of ado- 
ration; they turn to it in the darkness of strife for high 
hopes and heroic promptings, and in the brightness of suc- 
cess with grateful joy and pride : it is written on their 
heavens, at night in stars, at noonday in rainbows. 

Yes, true it is, that since the world stood, since God 
ruled in heaven, no life given for liberty has been utterly 



52 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

lost, no cry, or aspiration, or defying shout for freedom has 
died with the heart from whence it came, though breathed 
from the dying lips of the exile, or whispered by the pris- 
oner in his cell, or sent forth with his last strength, on his 
last breath, by the soldier when he went down alone, amid 
thousands of the foe. The immortal spirit of freedom from 
the fallen brave, passes into and animates patriot hearts, 
through the ages, and it gains new power and majesty with 
each new incarnation. 

But, as when we contemplate the crucified one and the 
martyred saints of old, we see them with their majestic 
glories round them, wearing their ' crowns of rejoicing,' 
encircled with the halos of divinity, and behold not the 
wreath of thorns, the scourge, the piercing spear, the rack, 
the fire, the flood, and all the infernal inventions and varie- 
ties of torture, — so now, as we fix our gaze on patriot 
heroes and freedom's martyrs, we speak of them in words 
of triumph, for the moral height on which they stand seems 
a very ' mount of transfiguration,' and wrapped about in its 
glory they seem exalted above earth, its weakness, ties, 
and transient associations. Ah ! we see not the mocking 
and scourging of their degradation, the crucifixion of their 
manhood, the racking of the spirit, the tiger- fangs at the 
breast, the molten lead-drops slowly burning into the brain, 
all, all the fearful tortures of their hurnan nature — intensely 
human — for from their perfect humanity their heroism 
took its life. 

Could we look into the depths of their hearts, and behold 
how dear to them is the life they are about to resign for the 
murderer's fate, or the slow death of exile ; could we re- 
member with them its early promise, and romance, and 
ideal beauty, or the grand aspirations and splendid dreams, 
and manly struggles of its prime ; could we know all the 
hopes, the honors, the endearments ' which made that life 
beloved,' and all the sorrows, buried loves, and vain, sweet 
visions that hallowed it, then we might measure the height 
and depth of their sacrifice. 



THE IRISH PATRIOTS OF '48. 53 

Could we look into the cell of the condemned, in the 
deep midnight, when the gaze of curiosity and enmity was 
excluded, when the tide of outward life was stilled, or beat 
against the prison-walls with faint murmurs, then could we 
behold the mighty spirit of vitality, the unconquerable love 
of life tugging at the heart-strings of the doomed patriot ; 
could we witness his vain efforts to crush it down by the 
power of heroic endurance ; could we see the convulsive 
quiver of the lips, the sweat-drops oozing from the brow, as 
the stern conflict goes on ; and oh ! could we hear him, as 
thoughts of deeper and more whelming agony beat at his 
heart, groan forth the names of his dear ones, or whisper 
them in a tone like that of dying tenderness, in a love stronger 
than death, a love overcoming all the fears and sufferings 
of self; or see him lift his eyes heavenward, with a^gaze 
so burningly intense it might almost pierce the stony roof 
of his dungeon, and breathe for those loved ones the prayer 
of a breaking heart ; could we see all this, we might meas- 
ure the height and depth of their sorrow. 

Could we look into the darkened homes of those who 
hold them dear ; could we mark the gray-haired sire, bowed 
towards the earth, as though impatient for its grave-rest ; 
could we mark how, at morning and evening prayer, his lip 
trembles and his voice falters at the sacred words, ' Tht/ 
ivill he done ; ' could we look into the face of the mother, 
and see by its pallor and its tears, that the heart was break- 
ing within her ; could we mark the sister's anguish, the 
brother's agonized sympathy, the bitter wailing of the child, 
the fainting, the despair, the unutterable grief of the wife ; 
the lonely weeping, and frightful visions, and wild prayers 
of her nights, and the sick gaze she opens on the dawn 
which brings no hope to her worn spirit ; could we contem- 
plate the fair, young life of the betrothed maiden, so sud- 
denly laid desolate, struck down and broken like a rare 
vase once filled with bloom and sweetness, shattered and 
lying in beautiful fragments before us, with all its morning 
5* 



54 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

flowers trampled in the dust : could we see all this, we 
might measure the height and depth of the enormity of that 
condemnation which rends so many clinging ties, immolates 
so many loves, fills so many homes with the voice of weep- 
ing, and flings upon so many paths thick shadows from the 
wing of death. 

To perish ' upon the gallows high,' or endure a life-long 
exile, what a fate for those proud spirits who so lately saw 
in their enraptured visions, a career of heroic struggle, and 
glory before them, and their beloved country redeemed and 
disenthralled, taking her old place among the nations ! Oh, 
God ! can these things be ! Alas ! we know that they are 
now, but how long shall they endure } Yet let us still the 
impatient voices of our hearts, for we know that the Author 
of liberty, the Divine source of right and justice, liveth and 
ruleth, and that all will yet be well. 

Oh ! royal England, may not thy great heart be even yet 
touched with compassion, and thou be constrained to ofler a 
full and perfect forgiveness to those who have so bravely, 
perchance madly ^ rebelled against thy dominion. But, if 
thou wilt show no relenting, but continue hard and merci- 
less to the end, if thine onward march is to be over crushed 
spirits and ruined homes, as heaven is above thee, the day 
of thine own fall, the day that shall see thee also over- 
whelmed, shall come at last! 

' And not by all thy glory then, 

By armed hosts arrayed, 
By pomp, and power, and mighty men, 
Can God's right arm be stayed ! ' 

Then shalt thou feel the earth heaved beneath, and the skies 
darkened above thee ! Then shall thy foes exult, and thine 
allies tremble ; then, from the warm south, the chill north, 
the free wild west, and the golden east, shall ring shouts of 
triumph ; from the isles of the sea shall go up paeans of 
rejoicing; and then shall the angel of freedom appear, and 



THE IRISH PATRIOTS OP '48. 55 

roll away the stone from the sepulchre of Ireland's national 
spirit, bidding it arise to a glorious resurrection ; while the 
armed watchers over a sleep they deemed eternal, stand 
aghast, drop the swords from their palsied hands, and faint 
in their armor. 

When thus Ireland, thy freed sister, begins anew her 
national existence, may she be warned, by thy fall, against 
pride, cruelty, oppression, extortion, and that defiant for- 
getfulness of God, which is the soul of all tyranny ! 



*A MERE ACT OF HUMANITYJ 

A SLIGHT SKETCH. 



' Health to the art whose glory is to give 
The crowning boon that makes it life to live.' — Holmes. 

Start not, my fastidious reader, when I announce that 
the young gentleman, in whose favor and fortunes I would 
enlist your friendly sympathies, as the hero of this sketch, 
is, or rather was^ a medical student ! Now I am very well 
aware that medical students are proverbially ' hard cases ' 
— wild, spreeing, careless, skeptically inclined young gen- 
tlemen, whose handkerchiefs smell of ether, and whose 
gloves are strongly suggestive of rhubarb ; whose talk runs 
large, with bold jests on grave subjects, sly anatomical 
allusions, and startling hints at something 

' Mair horrible and awfu', 
Which e'en to name wad be unlawfu',' 

and whose very laughter has a sort of bony-rattle about it. 
But our friend. Will Ashley, fortunately belonged not to 
the Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen class of Esculapian dis- 
ciples. He was a man of refinement, intellect, education, 
and principle — pleasing address, fine person, and good 
family. Republican as I am, I can but think much o^ good 
blood — pure and honorable blood, I mean. He had no 
bravado, no pretension, no recklessness, no skepticism about 
him. He chose his profession at the first, from a real, 
natural leaning that way, and pursued it with true enthu- 



'A MERE ACT OF HUMANITY.' 57 

siasm and untiring constancy ; and this partiality and 
devotion have been rewarded with the happiest success. 
Dr. Ashley is now regarded by his many patients, with a 
remarkable confidence and affection. To them, there seems 
' healing in the very creak of his shoes on the stairs,' his 
cheerful smile lights up the sick room like sunshine ; his 
gentle words and sympathetic tones are as balm and 
' freshening oil ' to hearts and minds, wounded and dis- 
tempered with the body, and his bright laugh and playful 
wit are a positive tonic to the weak and nervous and fearful. 
But I am anticipating ; my story has perhaps most to do 
with the student-life of Ashley. 

When William was quite young, a mere boy indeed, he 
became much attached to a pretty cousin of his own — a 
gentle, dark-eyed, Southern girl, who made her home for 
some years with his mother and sister, in the quiet, New 
England city of H , where she was attending school. 

Jessie Archer was, in truth, a lovely creature ; with a 
heart full of all good and kindly feelings ; with a soft, 
endearing manner, but with very little strength of character, 
or stability of purpose. She tenderly loved her Northern 
relatives, and parted from them at last, from her cousin 
William in particular, with many tears and passionate 
expressions of regret. She was not positively betrothed to 
this cousin — such a measure would have been opposed by 
their friends, on account of the extreme youth of the parties 
— but she knew well his love and his dear hope ; that he 
looked upon her as his future bride, and she was well 
content with this understanding. 

As a matter of course, and lover-like necessity, William 
Ashley corresponded with his cousin. At first, the letters on 
both sides were frequent, long, and confidential ; but after 
the first year of absence, those of Miss Jessie changed 
gradually in their tone, and became ' few and far between.' 
But William, who was faithful and believing, made a 
thousand kind excuses for this, and continued to write out 



58 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

of his own affectionate and changeless heart. But at length 
his Jessie ceased to write altogether. Two months went by, 
and then poor Ashley, in much distressful anxiety, wrote to 
her, entreating to be told the cause of her strange silence. 
There came a reply at last — a brief reply, written in the 
dear, familiar hand, but bearing for a signature, a strange 
name. She had been a fortnight married to a wealthy 
Virginia planter. 

This home-thrust at his heart by a beloved hand ; this 
sudden annihilation of his dearest hopes, by her whose 
sweet source and centre they had been, almost prostrated 
the young student, mind and body. He was proud, sensi- 
tive, and twenty-one ; he had the heart and was at the age 
to feel acutely, to suffer and despair. His ambition died 
out — his energies flagged — then his appetite went by the 
board ; his eye grew spiritless, his step heavy, and his 
cheek pale. ' He must give up study,' said his mother.' 
' He must take a journey,' said his sister, speaking one word 
for him and two for herself. This last proposition, which 
was strongly pressed, was finally acceded to ; and the young 
gentleman set forth, dispirited and ill, under the care, 
(' protection,' she called it,) of his charming sister, Ellen. 
They went directly West, for a visit to the Falls ; the very 
journey which William had always looked forward to as his 
bridal-tour. Now it seemed but to depress and sadden him 
the more ; he was restless, moody, and abstracted — the 
very worst travelling-companion possible to have. Ellen 
found it exceedingly difficult to divert him from his melan- 
choly thoughts and tender recollections, ' pleasant and 
mournful to the soul.' The fine scenery along their route, 
constantly reminded him of the double pleasure he had 
anticipated in first viewing it with his beautiful bride. 

At Buffalo, our travellers took the afternoon boat for 
Chippewa. It was a bright and breezy day, early in July — 
water, earth and sky were lit up gloriously by the declining 
sun, as they swept down that grand, immortal river. As 



'A MERE ACT OF HUMANITY.' 59 

the brother and sister stood on deck, silently drinking in the 
rare beauty of the scene and hour, they noticed a party 
near them, distinguished amid all the crowd, by a certain 
quiet elegance of dress and manner, with a bearing of 
perhaps unconscious superiority. This was a family party, 
and consisted of an elderly gentleman, Mr. Harley, a 
wealthy banker, and an honorable citizen of New York ; 
his wife, a sweet, motherly-looking woman ; their daughter, 
Juliet, a fair and delicate girl of eighteen, and their only 
son. Master Fred, a lad of nine or ten. 

Ashley was a thorough republican — poor and proud ; 
and being now more than usually inclined to coldness and 
reserve, instinctively shrunk from all contact with this party, 
in whom he at once recognized the air patrician and exclu- 
sive. But toward evening, Mr. Harley made some courteous 
advances, and finally succeeded in getting up quite a free 
and animated conversation with his young fellow-traveller, 
with whose well-bred air and thoughtful countenance he 
had been attracted and impressed. They discoursed on the 
magnificent scenery around them, then on the battles and 
sieges, bold generalship and grand fighting which had made 
classic ground of the wild Niagara frontier; and Ashley, 
who was an admirable talker, soon became earnest and 
even eloquent, in spite of himself. All at once, in looking 
up, he met the beautiful blue eyes of Miss Juliet fixed upon 
him with evident interest and admiration. The young lady 
dropped her gaze instantly, while a deep blush suffused her 
bright, ingenuous face. An involuntarily thrill of pleasure 
agitated the heart of Ashley, and his cold eye kindled with 
a new fire ; but as thought returned — the thought of all 
the fickleness and coquetry, and heartlessness of woman, 
his brow clouded, he bit his lip, and with a few hasty words, 
turned abruptly, and drawing his sister's arm within his own, 
walked to the side of the vessel, and there stood, silently 
and moodily, gazing down into the darkening waters and 
off into the deepening twilight. 



60 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Owing to some detention, the boat was later than usual, 
so that it was quite dark when they landed at Chippewa. 
On leaving the boat, Mr. Ashley and his sister found them- 
selves directly behind the party with whom they had been 
conversing. Mr. Harley looking round and seeing them, 
began making some inquiries respecting the hotel of which 
they had made choice, when Master Fred, who, in his boy- 
ish independence, was walking alone, suddenly stumbled 
and fell — fell from the broad plank over which they were 
passing, into the river below. There were screams and 
shouts, and rushings to and fro, but no rescue was attempted, 
until Ashley, breaking from the clinging hold of his sister, 
leaped boldly into the deep, dark water. For a few mo- 
ments, which seemed an age to the spectators, he searched 
in vain along the narrow space between the vessel and the 
wharf, but finally he espied the lad's head appearing from 
under the boat, caught, and drew forth the already insen- 
sible child, and, greatly exhausted himself, swam back to the 
plank with his precious burden. They were drawn on board 
together with joyful shouts and earnest thanksgiving. 

As Ashley stood in the gangway, staggering and half 
blind, the crowd cheering and pressing around him, his 
sister flung her arms around his neck, and hung upon him, 
laughing and weeping hysterically. But the poor fellow 
was faint and chilled, and strove to release himself from 
her passionate embrace. But just as he stood free, he felt 
his hand clasped, but gently, timidly, and looking round, 
saw Miss Harley at his side. She hastily raised that cold, 
wet hand to her warm, quivering lips, and kissed it grate- 
fully, while her tears, her irrepressible tears, fell upon it, 
as she murmured — ' God bless you ! God in heaven bless 
you ! ' and then hurried away to attend upon her brother, 
who had been carried back into the cabin. The little lad 
soon recovered sufficiently to be able to join the party, who 
together took their way to the Clifton House. 

That night, after supper, which he had served in a private 



A MERE ACT OF HUMANITY.' 61 

parlor, Mr. Harley sought the room of Ashley — his heart 
overflowing with gratitude toward the young hero, and his 
thoughts busy with plans of generous recompense. At the 
door he met a servant bearing away a wet travelling-suit, 
which sight quickened even more his warm and kindly 
feelings. He entered, to find Mr. Ashley wrapt in a 
dressing-gown, sitting by a table, his head bent down on his 
hands, a plate of light food, almost untasted, and a cup of 
tea, half drank, pushed back from before him. He was 
looking even paler and more spiritless than usual. In fact, 
our friend was completely exhausted by the excitement and 
exertion of the evening, and consequently deepened in 
moodiness and reserve. He rose, however, as his visiter 
entered, and bowing politely, begged him to be seated. But 
Mr. Harley came forward, took his hand, and pressing it 
warmly, looked kindly into that pale, quiet face, his own 
countenance all a-glow, and tears actually glistening in his 
deep-set, gray eyes. Ashley cast down his wn eyes in 
painful embarrassment, which Mr. Harley perceiving, took 
the proffered chair, and strove to converse awhile on indif- 
ferent topics. But he soon came round to the subject 
nearest his heart ; dwelt long and at large on his paternal 
Joy and gratitude, not seeming to heed the impatience of his 
sensitive auditor, and finally closed with, — 

'I trust that there is some way in which I can prove, my 
gratitude — in part reward you for your generous heroism. 
Tell me, my dear young friend, can I repay you in any 
way ? ' 

To Ashley's jealous ear there was a tone of patronage — 
an insulting jingle of the banker's purse in these words, at 
which he involuntarily drew himself up, and curled his 
short upper-lip ; and when Mr. Harley earnestly repeated 
his question, thus : 

'Is there noway in which I can sei've you?' he replied 
with a sort of nonchalant hauteur. 

' Yes ; by never mentioning this little circumstance again. 
6 



62 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

I but did for your son what I would do for any fellow- 
creature. It was a mere act of humanity^ I assure you.' 

Mr. Harley, quite taken aback, chilled, and withal deeply 
hurt, rose at once, and with a stately bow and a cold ' good- 
night,' parted from the rescuer of his child, the young hero, 
with whom five minutes before he would have divided his 
fortune. Tired and indifferent, Ashley flung himself upon 
his bed, and slept soundly till late in the morning ; then rose 
with a headache, made a light breakfast, and hurried down 
to Table-Rock with his sister, who had been up since day- 
break, impatiently awaiting his appearance. 

Ashley was long lost in that first contemplation of the 
grand scene before him ; his soul seemed born to a new life 
— a new world of beauty, and power, and dread, over- 
whelming sublimity. 

The day was wondrously beautiful, and floods of sunlight 
were mingling with the waters, and pouring over that 
stupendous precipice*, into the darkest deeps fell the fear- 
less, glad sunbeams, sounding like golden plummets those 
terrible abysses. There hung the rainbow, and Ellen, as 
she gazed, remarked a wild-bird, who seemed sporting in 
the spray, pass through the illuminated arch, and become 
glorified in its midst ; and it seemed to her like an innocent, 
confiding spirit, coming near to the might and grandeur of 
Deity, through the beautiful gateway of love. 

Ashley was at length roused from his trance of high- 
wrought rapture, by feeling a small, timid hand laid on his 
arm, and turned to see Master Fred standing at his side, 
with a faint glow on his cheek, and an afiectionate pleasure 
shining in his sunken eye. The lad, to-day something of an 
invalid, was accompanied and half-supported by a servant. 
Ashley felt an instinctive attraction toward this child, who 
was a line, intelligent boy, by the way, and talked whh him 
more kindly and familiarly than he had ever felt disposed to 
converse with the elder Harley. 

On leaving the rock, the Ashleys overtook Mr. Harley 



'A MERE ACT OF HUMANITY.' 63 

with his wife and daughter. Juliet blushed painfully, as her 
eye met that of William, but she bowed and smiled, as she 
bade the brother and sister, ' Good-morning.' Mr. Harley 
merely lifted his hat, but Mrs. Harley, who had been so 
absorbed the evening previous by her intense anxiety for her 
son, as almost to forget his brave rescuer, now, dropping the 
arm of her husband, and grasping the hand of the young 
student, poured the whole story of her boundless gratitude, 
of her deep, immeasurable joy, into his not willing ear. 
But after all, the blessing of that mother sunk into his heart 
— a good heart, though somewhat wayward, and sadly out 
of harmony with life just now. 

A short time after this, Ashley again saw Miss Harley. 
They met in a fearful place, behind the sheet, on Termina- 
tion Rock — the secret, dread abode, the dim, awful 
sanctuary of sublimity. 

Even then, Ashley, exalted by poetry, solemnized by 
grandeur as he was, could but remark the miracle of beauty 
which made the young lady look lovely as ever in the rude, 
grotesque costume, the clumsy water-proof dress provided 
for this adventurous expedition. He next noticed the fear- 
less, yet awe-struck enthusiasm, the high, rapt expression of 
her face, as, sheltering her eyes from the storm of spray 
with her fair hand, she gazed upward, to where the huge 
colums of water, dark-green, and snowy- white, leaped over 
the shelving precipice, and plunged with a thunderous roar 
into the black abyss at her side. 

In after days he often thought of that fair creature, as 
she thus appeared — so young, so delicate, yet so brave — 
so lost to herself, almost to life, in a deep trance of awe and 
adoration. He often thought of her thus, as his last sight of 
her ; for after this they parted ; he and Ellen passing over 
to the American side, saw no more of the Harleys during 
their brief stay at the Falls. 

Ashley was, almost in spite of himself, much improved in 
health and spirits by travel ; and on his return resumed his 



64 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Studies with a sort of dogged devotion, if not with all his old 
enthusiasm. Yet sometimes, as formerly, the vision of a 
fair being would come to disturb and distract his thoughts — 
would flit across his humble room, be almost palpably 
present to his waking dreams. But it hardly seemed the 
'lovely young Jessie,' the ' beloved of his early years;' this 
was a fairer, slighter form, clad, oddly enough, in a heavy 
dress of yellow oil-cloth, with a sort of hood, which, half- 
falling back, revealed a sweet face, all glorified by sublime 
adoration. He saw — how distinctly he saw, the deep, 
abstracted eyes, the bright, parted lips — ah, those lips! 
whenever he recalled them by some mysterious association, 
his eye would fall on his own right hand — a tolerably 
symmetrical hand, surely, but with nothing more peculiar 
about it, that I could ever see. 

The fall succeeding the journey to Niagara, William 
Ashley received his diploma, and the next spring opened an 
office in his native city. Not possessing wealth, or much 
family-influence, and being young and modest, he had at 
first few, very few calls. But he was always at his post, 
never employed his leisure unworthily, or was idle or 
desponding. He studied as diligently as ever, and waited 
patiently for those patients whom he rested assured, in the 
future — the fair, golden future — were ' bound to come.' 

It happened that the young physician's way home from 
his office, lay past, and very near to the elegant residence of 

Mr. N , a wealthy and somewhat distinguished citizen 

of H ; and, pouring through the open windows of this 

mansion, he one night heard the sweetest singing that had 
ever met his ear. It was a clear, fresh contralto voice, 
artistic in execution, yet sweet, and full of feeling. 

Ashley, a fine singer himself, was passionately fond of 
music ; and he lingered long before that house, walking up 
and down beneath the thick shadows of the grand old elms. 

This was but the beginning of pleasure ; night after night, 
for some weeks, found the young physician in the same 



'A MERE ACT OF HUMANITY.' 65 

spot, when he was almost always so happy as to hear that 
rare, delicious singing, thrilling and quivering through the 
still and dewy air. It was generally accompanied by the 
piano ; but sometimes he would see a gay group on the 
piazza, and among them a slight figure in white, looking 
very fair and delicate in the moonlight ; then there would 
come the tinkling of a guitar, and sweet love-lays of Italy, 
or wild ballads of Spain. 

And thus it went on, till Ashley, the invisible listener, had 
become altogether enchanted, spell-bound — in love ivith a 
voice, till fast and far in the dim distance, faded away that 
late familiar vision in yellow oil-cloth and falling hood, and 
fair, kindling countenance. He now spent as many hours 
over his books as ever, but his thoughts, alas! were far 
enough from the page ; for, to tell the truth, and expose his 
boyish folly, he was constantly dreaming out the form and 
features of the dear, unknown — of her with the voice. 
Unlike his former self, he now looked searching at the fair 
promenaders whom he met on the street, and he there saw 
pretty young ladies enough, but no one in whom he re- 
cognized his idea of the sweet singer. 

At length the hour of good fortune came alike to the 
physician and to the lover. 

Just at sunset, one pleasant evening, a young horseman 
came dashing up to Dr. Ashley's office, to summon him to a 
lady who had dislocated her ankle in springing from her 
horse. Our hero's heart beat quick as the messenger 

directed him to the house of Mr. N . The doctor was 

shown into a small parlor, where, on a lounge, clad in a 
white wrapper, reclined his first patient. A wealth of rich, 
golden hair, somewhat disheveled, first attracted Ashley's 
eye ; there was something strangely familiar in those bright 
curls, and he was not taken altogether by surprise when Mrs. 
N presented him to her niece, ' Miss Harley.'' 

The lady was lying with her hands over her face, to 
conceal the tears drawn forth by her acute suffering ; but at 
6* 



66 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

the mention of the doctor's name, she removed them, and 
looked up eagerly, smiling in the midst of her pain, with 
pleasure and surprise. 

But this was no time for more than a simple recognition, 
and the next moment saw the doctor bending professionally 
over the throbbing and swollen foot of the sufferer. 

The setting of the dislocated joint caused this young girl 
excruciating torture ; but she bore herself through all with 
heroic patience — the silent resignation of a true woman. 

Yet when all was over — the ankle bound up, and a 
composing draught administered, as the doctor took leave of 
his interesting patient, he saw that her cheek was deathly 
pale, and that her lips quivered convulsively. 

From that time, for some weeks, day after day, the young 

physician might have been seen (by Mrs. N ) kneeling 

by the side of Miss Juliet's couch — bending over that poor 
foot, bathing and dressing it, watching with intense interest 
the subsiding of the swelling, and the disappearance of the 
discoloration, till it became at last white and delicate, like 
its mate and former fellow-traveller. 

It is strange how, through all this time, the late music- 
mad young gentleman existed without listening to the 
beloved voice, for now, through the windows of that parlor, 
through the vines and roses of that piazza, no sweet singing 
floated out into the moonlight. 

I told you, dear reader, that Dr. Ashley used to kneel by 
Juliet's side to dress her ankle ; but when that was better — 
very much better, almost well, indeed, and clad in silken 
hose and slipper — it happened that once, when quite alone 
with his fair patient, at the dreamy twilight hour, the 
doctor suddenly found himself, by the force of habit, I 
suppose, in his old position. This time Miss Juliet bent 
over him till her hand lay on his shoulder — till her long, 
bright curls touched his forehead, till they mingled in with 
his own dark locks. She said but a word or two, and the 
young practitioner sprung up, impulsively and joyfully, and 



'A MERE ACT OF HUMANITY.' 67 

took a prouder position by the side of his beloved patient. 
His arm was soon about her slight waist — to support her, 
probably, as her recent indisposition had left her but weak ; 
her hand was in his own ; .and as he held it thus, he mentally 
observed — ' Quite the quickest pulse I have ever felt.' 

Miss Harley called herself well, but she did not seem 
perfectly so, while she remained with her relatives in 

H ; at least her physician called more and more 

frequently, nor did it appear that her poor ankle ever quite 
regained its strength ; for when she took her evening strolls 
with Dr. Ashley, they were observed to saunter along 
slowly, and she was seen to lean heavily on the arm of her 
companion. 

It is said that there are men who think that a slight lame- 
ness imparts a new interest to a lovely woman, and Dr. 
Ashley was probably one of these. 

One fine morning, early in September, Mr. Ogden Harley, 
the rich banker, and respectable citizen, was seated in his 
cushioned arm-chair, in his elegant library, in his princely 
residence in Waverley Place, in the city of Gotham. He 
was looking as easy and comfortable as usual — as well 
pleased with the world, and its ways in general, and its 
ways toward himself in particular ; and even more than 
usually happy and genial. 

Mr. Harley was not alone on this morning. There was 
then and there present a young man, rather tall, and 
quite handsome, modestly, yet elegantly dressed — (our 
friend, the doctor, to let you into the secret, dear reader) — 
who, with a very red face, and in a manner half proud, half 
fearful, was just making a confidant of the old gentleman 
— telling him a love-story of his own, in short. The good 
man seemed greatly interested in this history, badly told as it 
was ; and at its close, he rose, quite hastily for one of his 
aldermanic proportions, and going up to his visiter, and 
laying his hand kindly on his shoulder, said, 

' With all my heart — with all my heart ! I will give you 



68 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

my Juliet, and place her fortune in your hands ; for I 

honor and like you, young man.' 

Ashley, quite overcome, could only stammer out, 

' Oh, Mr. Harley, my dear sir, how can 1 ever repay you 

for this goodness — this great kindness !' 

' By never mentioning this little circumstance again ! ' 

replied Mr. Harley, with a roguish twinkle of the eye. 

' I saw, my dear boy, what a sad condition you were in, and 

this is " A Mere Act of Humanity, I assure you." ' 



EFFIE MATHER: 

A TALE OF NEW ENGLAND. 



CHAPTER I. 

* "With Scripture-texts to chill and ban 
The heart's fresh morning hours, 
The heavy-footed Puritan 
Goes trampling down the flowers.' — Whittier. 

Will my readers send their thoughts back with mine 
some thirty years, and look in with me upon a spacious old 
mansion, in a secluded town, lying in a pleasant New 
England valley ? It was a Sabbath afternoon, in June. 
The declining sun shone clearly through the open windows 
of a handsome parlor, looking out on an extensive garden, 
and fell on an interesting family group ; the members of 
which may perhaps be best presented in single portraits. 

The father, David Mather, was a tall, thin, hard-featured 
man of about forty, with firmset, smileless lips, and a cold, 
unsympathizing eye. He was wealthy, and possessed much 
influence in his native town ; was at the head of all school- 
committees, calls for town-meetings, &c. ; was the Post- 
master, a Judge of the Court, and a Deacon in the Church. 
He was a Calvinist after the strictest sect of the Puritans ; 
a lineal descendant of that good, old, Quaker-hating and 
witch-hanging race ; zealous apostles of the gospel of 
wrath ; preachers of awe and fear and austere living ; 
sworn foes of the beautiful and agreeable ; despisers of 



70 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

music and flowers; men lightly esteeming women, and 
having small indulgence for the laughter and frolic of chil- 
dren ; men of whom it has been said by an eloquent New 
England writer : — 

'To look with indifference upon the glories of the visible 
universe, and to despise those graces of the outward and 
inward life that invest the Christian character with an inde- 
scribable charm, were, in their narrow opinion, proofs of 
godliness. Their God was the sovoreign of an infinite 
desert, whose burning sands and sharp rocks were stained 
with the blood and tears of the trembling pilgrims who 
came to do homage at his throne.' 

Deacon Mather's family government was conducted with 
a lordly imperiousness and a cold severity, which commonly 
awed down all opposing wills into passive, if not cheerful 
submission. Obedience he ever required ; ready, unques- 
tioning, perfect obedience. Hesitation were rebellion, — 
remonstrance high treason. 

Deacon Mather was a man of prayer. A full hour of 
every morning and every evening were sacrificed on the 
family altar, which was the most ever laid thereon, for little 
of devotion and earnestness could there have been in pray- 
ers repeated standing, and without variation of word, or 
tone, every day through thirty or forty years. 

Mrs. Mather was rather a handsome woman, with a fine 
intellectual brow, and a large, soft black eye, but pale and 
languid. Her whole countenance and air were expressive 
of a perfectly subdued and submissive spirit; a sad, un- 
hoping, uncomplaining resignation. It was said that she 
had been a brilliant, happy, high-spirited woman in her 
youth, but having been brought into subjection to a stronger 
will and a severer character, she had lost first her gayety, 
then her spirit, and finally seemed almost to have merged 
her individuality in that of her husband. 

The eldest son, James, was strikingly like his father. He 
had the same colorless cheek, the same sober brow, the 



EFFIE MATHER. 71. 

cold, deep-set eye, and firm, thin lips. In character, also, 
he seemed a perfect reproduction. Unnaturally serious, 
unsocial, and unyielding, he was, even in boyhood, precise 
and Puritanical — an observer of forms, a great respecter of 
small proprieties. He was, at the time of which we speak, 
about sixteen years of age, and was the pride and hope of 
his father. 

In strong contrast with this boy-man, was the second son, 
Walter, a handsome, healthful lad, of about twelve, with a 
keen, clear eye, full, laughing lips, and an unusual degree 
of independence in the carriage of his head. Walter was 
gifted with a proud and liberty-loving nature, but his good 
sense and good temper commonly kept down all unfilial 
demonstration of indignant feeling against the domestic 
oppression to which he was subjected. The most he was 
ever guilty of was a petulant betrayal of boyish impatience 
at confinement and reproof. He was a merry, careless 
lad, neither very studious nor industrious, but passionately 
fond of fishing, skating, and all the usual sports of boyhood. 
His love of play and hate of books and work, added to 
that bold, free spirit which would occasionally flash out, 
caused him to be more keenly watched, and more hardly 
dealt with than his elder brother. Many of his natural 
tastes were thwarted ; many were the deprivations and 
disappointments he was called to endure in the absurd 
attempt to ' break his will,' which only strengthened, secretly 
and sullenly, at unreasonable exactions and a tyrannical 
show of power. 

Much iike her favorite brother, Walter, in many respects, 
was the only daughter, Effie, a singularly beautiful girl of 
ten. But "hers was a still deeper and stronger character. 
She possessed an active, imaginative intellect, a sensitive 
and generous heart, but a quick and passionate temper. 
She was wild, restless and daring ; self-willed, but not 
stubborn; more whimsical than wilful, a thoughtless and 
wayward, but a thoroughly original, and a truthful child ; a 



72 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

lover of mischief, frolic and free air, and a vehement little 
hater of restraints and despotic governments. She was one 
to have been dealt with by a gentle and reasonable author- 
ity, in a sort of tender firmness ; to have been led, rather 
than driven ; influenced, rather than controlled. In this 
way she would probably have been reared, had her edu- 
cation been left to her mild and sensible mother. But 
scarcely was she out of her cradle, ere she was brought 
under her father's iron rule ; her little sports, her dress, 
and her earliest studies were regulated by his will, and the 
first passionate outbursts of her temper were punished with 
terrible severity. 

Effie was, as I have said, very beautiful. She was tall 
and rather large for her age ; her complexion was dark, yet 
lively and changing ; her features were remarkably regular; 
her eyes black, but softly shadowed by thick, long lashes ; 
her hair was luxuriant — in childhood curling, but as she 
grew older, slightly waving above her broad, clear forehead. 
For her romantic name she was indebted to her mother, 
who, a short time before the birth of her little daughter, 
had been reading (by stealth) ' The Heart of Mid-Lothian,' 
and it proved in many respects a most appropriate name. 

But to turn to the group in Deacon Mather's parlor. They 
had all attended both morning and afternoon service, and 
were now seated near those pleasant open windows, not for 
repose and quiet social enjoyment ; not to look forth and 
read the most ancient Evangel of God's love in the fair 
book of nature ; not to behold ' the beauty of His holiness' 
in the nodding flowers and swaying boughs and bending 
grass, in the glancing waves at play among the reeds, and 
in the sunset glories flooding all the western hills. No, 
each one sat with a serious Sunday face, and with a Sunday 
book in hand. The Deacon held ' Scott's Family Bible,' 
open at Leviticus. Mrs. Mather read ' Edwards on the 
Affections,' and James frowned over ' Fox's Book of Mar- 
tyrs,' while Walter and EflEie, sitting together, on a sofa, 



EFFIE MATHER. 73 

nearest the windows, held before their tired eyes the ' West- 
minster Catechism.' To appearance they were puzzling 
their young brains over the doctrine of the Trinity, but 
probably they thought little of the theological bearing of 
the dry, hard text which they were required to repeat ver- 
hatim et literatim. There was in the air of these children 
an evident restlessness, though they dared make no audible 
manifestation of discontent. When a light, fresh breeze 
came hurrying in and irreverently rustled and turned the 
grave leaves of their Catechism ; when the shadow of a 
swaying bough fell on the page ; when the robin lit on a 
slender spray, which bent and trembled more to the strong 
gushes of his music than beneath his slight weight, as he 
poured forth his unconscious praise to Him who had guided 
his lone flight through pathless skies back to his northern 
home, and there called forth the young leaves again to 
shield his nest ; when the sound of the rivulet came to 
their ears, laughing low, as though half afraid of breaking 
the still Puritan Sabbath ; then would the cheeks of the 
children flush and their frames quiver with impatience to 
be out amid those airs of freedom and life, amid all those 
sights and sounds of beauty and joy. 

The day had seemed unusually long, even for a Sabbath, 
for the night before they had been sent to bed early, and 
under a cloud, for having been caught at play in the 
orchard, a full half hour after sunset. Now, ever and 
anon they would send eager looks out toward the west, 
to see if that slow, tiresome sun was not setting, and Sun- 
day, with its wearisome duties and dull solemnities coming 
to an end at last. 

At fourteen, Eflie Mather was an interesting and a strik- 
ing but scarcely a lovable girl, though herself of great 
capacities for loving. Pride, and will and passionateness, 
so far from having been subdued by Puritanical rule, had 
been fixed and strengthened in her nature. 

Hers was a strong, rather than a fine cast of mind ; — 
7 



74 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

her intellect was inquiring and daring, rather than trusting 
and reverential. She was a person of many moods, — at 
one time prudent and thoughtful to seriousness — at another 
wild, defiant and reckless. Between her father and herself 
there was a natural and unceasing antagonism, displayed 
on the one hand in unreasonable requirements and restric- 
tions, and on the other in the quick curl of the scornful lip, 
the indignant flash of the eye, the heaviness of the unwil- 
ling step — in all the ungraciousness of a forced and soul- 
less obedience. Between herself and her eldest brother 
there was also little of harmony. He had about him that 
cold imperiousness, that imperturbable calmness, so in- 
tensely irritating to a passionate nature. But her mother 
and her brother Walter she loved idolatrously, and to them 
she was ever generous and gentle, and yielding. She early 
sought to share in the domestic cares and labors of this 
mild and saddened mother, and to cheer and comfort her in 
her hours of discouragement and unhappiness ; and ever 
ready to laugh, or weep with this brave and handsome 
brother, to favor his plans for pleasure, and conceal his 
faults and transgressions. 

James Mather, who had neither the looks, nor the tastes, 
the follies, nor the virtues of the boy, was ever leagued 
with his father against his idle, school-hating, hunting and 
fishing brother, and his pert, passionate and romping sister; 
and as a natural consequence, a defensive alliance was 
formed by the two culprits, against the common enemy. 
As a natural consequence, they became adepts in the art of 
concealment, in acting falsehoods, while strangely enough 
they were too brave and conscientious to utter an untruth 
on any occasion. 

Effie had naturally a great fondness for poetry and ro- 
mance ; but her father's express prohibition limited her 
reading to the Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, Scott (Thomas), 
Edwards, Doddridge, Watts, Mrs. Rowe, Young's Night 
Thoughts, Coelebs in Search of a Wife, The Triumphs of 



EFFIE MATHER. 



75 



Temper, Rasselas, Paradise Lost, Pollok's Course of Time, 
and a choice few biographical and historical works. One 
day, when our heroine was just in her teens, in searching 
through an old trunk of her mother's, she came across an 
odd volume of Shakspeare. This proved to her an inesti- 
mable treasure ; it stirred her heart with strange, bewildering 
emotions, and filled her brain with ' charmed singing,' 
new imaginings and visions of love and beauty. One 
dreary, blustering afternoon in midwinter, she sat in a 
comfortable arm-chair, before a blazing fire, reading Mid- 
summer Night's Dream, — so lost in its fairy enchantment, 
so lapped in the Elysium of fancy and poetry, that she did 
not remark the opening of the door, did not hear the ap- 
proach of footsteps. Her father stood over her. He read 
a few lines of the book before him, the book of plays and 
abominations, then suddenly caught and flung it into the 
midst of the fire. With a shriek of dismay, Effie sprang 
forward to rescue her treasure, but a heavy hand was laid 
on her shoulder, she was thrust back into her seat, sternly 
reprimanded, and forbidden to take a book of that descrip- 
tion into her hand again. 

Effie went with this new grievance to her brother Walter, 
who sympathized with her to that extent, that the night 
following he brought to her chamber a complete edition of 
Shakspeare, borrowed from a village friend. In this un- 
lawful way. Burns, and Pope, and Scott, and Byron, with 
innumerable old novels and plays, were procured and 
stealthily read in that little chamber. In after years, Effie 
was heard to say that never had she read with such utter 
absorption, such an intensity of interest, such heart-leaps 
of excitement, such a terrible zest, as at that season, pain- 
fully conscious as she was of transgression, and always 
fearful of detection. In -return for Walter's considerate 
kindness, Effie allowed him to come to her chamber, where 
his father and brother seldom intruded, and there to smoke 
as many forbidden cigars as suited his adolescent aspira- 
tions. 



/b GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

When James Mather was eighteen, he entered college at 
New Haven, with a view to the ministry. Walter had no 
better prospects before him than a life behind the counter, 
a business peculiarly unsuited to his roving, adventurous 
spirit. He once asked his father to procure for him a 
midshipman's warrant, through the influence of a friend at 
Washington ; but his proposition was met with such a storm 
of anger and reproof that he never dared to renew it, but 
faithfully strove to content himself with the occupation 
assigned to him. 

The winter that Walter was seventeen, it happened that a 

French exile established a dancing school at L , which 

was very well supported by the world's people, to the great 
scandal of the more godly. Walter knew his father too 
well to ask his permission to attend this, but could not resist 
the temptation to become clandestinely a pupil of Mons. 
Durande. It chanced that the window of his chamber 
opened on a piazza, from whence he could easily descend 
by sliding down one of the pillars, which he had but to 
climb on his return. So, night after night, when his parents 
believed him keeping remarkably good hours, and sound 
asleep in his chamber overhead, he was keeping remarkably 
good time to the profane music of the profanest of instru- 
ments, and becoming quite au fait of the chasse and 
balance, dos-a-dos^ cliaine Anglaise, &lc. It is hardly 
necessary to say, that Effie from the first aided and abet- 
ted in this pleasant piece of wickedness, and that she was 
herself instructed by brief morning lessons in the upper 
hall, or in her own room, in all that her brother had ac- 
quired in his evening's practice. All went smoothly for a 
month or two, when a zealous brother in the church visited 
Deacon Mather, expressly to warn him respecting his god- 
less son. It was about ten o'clock at night when he came 
to discharge this Christian duty, so painful to a pious heart. 
Speechless with astonishment. Deacon Mather hurried up to 
Walter's room, and not finding him there, caught his hat, 



EFFIE MATHER. 77 

and, pale with ' holy rage,' strode down the street to the 
dancing saloon. When his father entered, Walter had just 
handed up to her place at the head of the set, a pretty, blue- 
eyed young girl, of whom he had always been very fond ; 
he was bending down to whisper in her ear some boyish 
compliment, when a stern hand was laid on his shoulder, 
and he was dragged ignominiously from the room. 

That night, Effie was waked from her first slumber by 
what seemed to her the sound of blows, coming up from 
the room beneath, but as she did not hear Walter's voice, 
nor any groan, or outcry, she thought she had been mis- 
taken. She did not yet know her brother. Within a half 
hour he came to her chamber, with a tearless face, but pale, 
even to the lips, and older looking by years, than she had 
ever seen him. Rapidly, but calmly, he told her the story 
of the night's outrage and disgrace ; then, setting down his 
lamp, he bared his arms and shoulders, and showed the long 
red marks of the rod. Across his right hand had fallen the 
most severe stroke, and from the cruel wale the blood was 
still oozing slowly. Holding this up to the light, Walter 
said in a tone of bitter, concentrated passion — ' when I 
forget that blow, Effie, may God forget me ! ' 

After a pause, while his sister wept silently, Walter 
resumed in a hoarse, abrupt voice, 'And now, Effie, I must 
bid you good bye — I am going away — going to-night — 
my valise is already packed — I have a little money, and 
shall be miles from home before morning.' ' Going away ! ' 
cried Effie, — 'Where.?' 'Why, first, to uncle John's in 
New York. He is rich, you know, and perhaps he will 
give me employment. Anyhow, I can find some way to 
live. I should die here — my heart would choke me, it is 
so big and hot with shame and anger. Say good-bye for 
me to mother — I could not bear to part with her — give her 
my dearest love — and — and, Effie, ask her to pray for me.' 
Then, catching his sister to his heart, he kissed her many 
times, and the first tears he had shed lay on her cheek when 



/S GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

he was gone. About midnight Effie heard him softly open 
his window, step out on the piazza, and slide down the 
pillar. She slipped out of bed, stole to the window and 
looked down. It was a very bright night and the earth was 
covered with snow ; so she saw him distinctly passing 
through the garden, carrying his valise on his shoulder. At 
the gate he paused, and looked back at the house and over 
the grounds — then turned and ran swiftly down the road. 
Ah, how often in after years, sleeping and waking, did Effie 
see her brother as she saw him then ! 

The next morning, as soon as the flight of Walter was 
known, Effie was questioned concerning it ; but neither the 
violent threats of her father, nor the gentle persuasions of 
her mother, could wring a word from her lips, and it was 
not until she believed her brother safe from immediate 
pursuit that she revealed all, and gave his last message to 
her weeping mother. 

Walter arrived safely at New York, but, coming under 
such suspicious circumstances, was not received by his 
wealthy relatives with a very flattering cordiality. Think- 
ing, from what his uncle said, that he was about to return 
him to his father, under a safe escort, he watched his 
opportunity, and escaped from the house, early one morning, 
and, valise in hand, went down to the wharf, where finding 
a vessel which was to sail for Europe that day, he bound 
himself to its master, to serve for a year, before the mast. 
He had only time to write a line to his sister, telling her 
that he was going to sea, but not giving the name of the 
ship. 

James Mather wrote to his father, on this event, after 
this wise : — 

' I would advise you, my dear sir, to make no inquiries 
concerning the perverse youth. Leave him to himself, and 
he will soon return, like the prodigal son, to his father's 
house, sorrowing.' 

And now, at all times. Deacon Mather's judgment 



EFFIE MATHER. 79 

coincided with that of his eldest son, and no least effort was 
made to reclaim the wanderer. 

Three or four times during the next eight months, Effie 
and her mother received letters from Walter. These were 
characterized by a sort of forced cheerfulness, and a slight 
tone of bravado little deceptive to those anxious, loving 
hearts. Then came a long silence, and then, little more 
than a year from the time of Walter's leaving home, there 
came a brief letter which I will lay before my reader. It 
was addressed to Mr. Mather, and ran thus : 

•Marine Hospital, Liverpool, March 7lh, 18 — . 

' My Father : — I have been in this place now about two 
months, confined by a sort of slow fever, brought on by the 
hardships and exposure I have been called to endure in my 
sea-faring life. The physicians have all along encouraged 
me, and have even now some hopes of my recovery : but I 
know that I shall die, and that soon. I feel all giving out 
within — my constitution, which, perhaps, you will remem- 
ber was never very strong, sinking and breaking up. I have 
no more strength nor courage — I have no life left, only a 
little breath. 

' Father, I do not wish to give you pain, but there are a 
few things which I must say before I die, even though they 
may seem like reproaches. I never meant to be a bad son 
to you, but you were always too stern, and harsh, and 
unsympathizing, toward me. It was this severity which 
rendered me disobedient and disingenuous — which has 
crushed my pride and broken my heart. Had you dealt 
less hardly by me, I might now have been at home, happy 
and respectable, and well, instead of being what I am, a 
poor sailor-boy, dying in a foreign hospital, with no mother 
or sister to nurse, or comfort me, to wipe away the cold 
sweat which even now lies thick upon my forehead. Oh, 
father, it is hard to die alone ! But tell mother that I put 
my trust in Jesus, and try to pray. And tell her that the 



80 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

nurses here are very good and attentive, and one of the 
physicians. Dr. Euston, exceedingly kind. He will take 
charge of this letter, and send it when I am gone. En- 
closed I send mother some locks of my hair. Tell her that 
I cut them from above my temples — the very locks she has 
brushed and curled so often. 

' I do not feel conscious, father, of having done you wrong, 
but if I have been too unfilial, and proud, and passionate, 
surely great is my punishment. But let us forgive one 
another, and may God forgive us all ! I would part in 
peace with brother James. Were he here now, I would 
grasp his hand with that kindly affection in which he never 
seemed to believe. 

' Give my dear last love to mother and Effie, and tell them 
they cannot know how much stronger, and deeper, and more 
unspeakably tender, is this dying love than any that the 
happy and healthful may feel. 

' Farewell. 

' Walter.' 

Accompanying this letter was a kindly note from Dr. 
Euston, stating that poor Walter died on the 12th of March. 

When Deacon Mather had read that letter he let it fall on 
the floor beside him, and covered his face with his hands, 
saying not a word. His wife took it up, and she and Effie 
read it as best they could. In the first wild tempest of 
sorrow which swept over them, they scarcely noted the 
father's presence or manner, but that night, as Effie watched 
by her poor mother, who was fainting and ill, she heard him 
walking, hour after hour, up and down the hall without 
groaning heavily. The next morning, however, he was 
calm, though he looked paler and older than usual, and 
Effie noticed that the hand he extended to take his coffee 
trembled much. 

Walter, without intending it, had terribly avenged him- 
self. His vanquished spirit, in taking flight, had shot a 



EFFIE MATHER. 81 

Parthian arrow which pierced to the heart of his father. 
But the stern man covered the wound, and none saw the 
hleeding. 



CHAPTER II. 

' Votary of doubt ! then join the festal throng, 
Bask in the sun-beam, listen to the song, 
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high. 
And bind the wreath, ere yet the roses die ! ' — Hemans. 

' Father in Heaven ! Thou, only Thou cans't sound 
The heart's great deeps, with floods of anguish filled, 

For human life too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, oh Father, if thy child 

Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild. 
And sinned in her despair ! ' — Hemans. 

Some years had passed by. Deacon Mather who had 
been for a time somewhat softened by his son's death, had 
regained all his former sternness ; Mrs. Mather had grown 
calm and resigned, James Mather was settled in the minis- 
try, and Effie was in love, actually engaged, though without 
the consent or knowledge of her parents. 

For all our heroine's ambition and wild untamable spirit, 
her choice was no other than a poor young clergyman, the 
lately appointed pastor of a small congregation in her 
native place — a man of much talent and elegant person 
indeed, but chiefly distinguished for his bold and earnest 
preaching of a liberal faith ; the pure gospel of love ; 
for the cheerfulness of his philosophy, and the active bene- 
volence of his life. 

Effie, with all her faults, had at times aspirations pain- 
fully intense after a larger and holier life, a life of the 
intellect and the affections, and longings for assurance and 
peace. But she ever felt the need of some stronger spirit 
to strengthen and support her in the hard ascending path of 
self-sacrifice and duty, of a heart whose love would shed 



82 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

brightness upon it, and cause cheering flowers to spring 
from rocky places. 

So it was that she scarcely waited to be assured that she 
was loved by Charles Leonard ere she let her heart go out 
toward him, as the one, the only one who could turn her 
from the false and frivolous, to a life of beneficent action, 
worthy and true and tranquilly happy. 

Contrary to the wishes and advice of her lover, Effie, 
knowing her father's aristocratic and religious prejudices, 
delayed acquainting him with her engagement. She had 
met Mr. Leonard at the house of a common friend, where 
they both spent much time. Seeing that Deacon Mather 
had little respect for his liberal and heterodox sentiments, 
and less partiality for him personally, the young clergyman 
seldom visited at his house. 

Matters were in this state when the Rev. James Mather 
came home for a brief visit. It happened that one evening, 
as this good man was walking in a grove near his father's 
place, engaged in devout meditations probably, he saw 
before him Effie and Mr. Leonard, slowly strolling along 
and talking most earnestly. He drew near, and overheard 
(accidentally, of course,) part of a conversation which left 
him no doubt of the melancholy state of affairs. Then 
moved by imperative duty, he suddenly caught the arm of 
his perverse sister, drew it within his own, rudely separating 
her from her companion, and hurried her home. 

Here followed a scene. Effie was accused before her 
father by her brother — upbraided, reproved and warned by 
both. But she stood up bravely against them, and told 
' some certain truths,' in language little remarkable for 
mildness or humility ;, she boldly asserted her independ- 
ence and avowed her resolution to marry the man of her 
choice, though he were friendless and unknown, poor and 
heretical. 

The next morning the fair rebel found the door of her 
chamber locked on the outside ; her breakfast was sent up 



EFFIE MATHER. 



83 



to her, and she was told that she should not leave the room 
until she had given up her will, and resigned herself to the 
decision of her father. Effie seemed no wise frightened ; 
she even laughed lightly at this threat, and bore herself 
bravely for some days. Finally, becoming impatient to 
hear from Mr. Leonard, she wrote to him, confiding her 
letter with many earnest injunctions to a servant girl, who 
promised faithfully to deliver it into his own hands, but who 
having had previous instructions, proved false, and conveyed 
it to her master. On the other hand, the letters of Mr. 
Leonard were suppressed, and without a word of explana- 
tion, all intercourse between the lovers effectually broken 
off. Effie stood out firmly for nearly a month, but at last, 
wearied by the entreaties of her mother and the ceaseless 
reproaches of her father, jealous and half maddened at 
hearing no word from her lover, she yielded, and wrote 
him a cold letter of dismissal. She received a reply that 
afternoon ; it was not explanatory, scarcely regretful ; it 
was a brief and dignified, yet a kindly letter of farewell. 
Thus was the sacrifice consummated. 

The next morning the door of Effie's chamber was 
thrown open, and she was restored to her old freedom. 
For a day or two, she walked all through the house and 
garden in a sort of listless restlessness, and then took to her 
bed, ill of a fever. So ill was she at one time, that her 
father, utterly despairing of her life, consented to send for 
Mr. Leonard, for whom she called constantly and most 
piteously in her delirium. But the young clergyman had 
left town a week before, and gone no one knew whither. 
Yet Effie's hour was not come. It was not hers to close 
her tired eyes on life so early in the day. Slowly and it 
seemed unwillingly she arose from the bed of pain whereon 
grief and despair had laid her. 

As soon as she was sufficiently restored to travel, her 
father took her to New York, where he left her to pass the 
winter with his aristocratic relations. 



84 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Here a new world opened before Effie. Though she 
had felt all soul-life crushed out of her by her late sorrow, 
she found that there was another life left her, one infinitely- 
poorer and narrower, yet possessing some fascination for 
one of her variable nature ; a life of ambition, excitement 
and pleasure ; and into this she threw herself with heartless 
abandon. From the first, she saw herself an object of great 
admiration, and this was pleasant. She had naturally fine 
taste, she rapidly caught ideas of style and fashion, and by 
the unusual liberality of her father, and the kindness of her 
city friends, she was able to dress with richness and ele- 
gance as became her brilliant beauty and the grace and 
noble proportions of her figure. 

Among her many suitors, there was one whom Efiie 
regarded from the first with admiring respect. This was 
Mr. Warren, a merchant of princely fortune, and of dis- 
tinguished family, a native of her own State, though for 
some years past he had resided in Paris, and was now only 
visiting in New York. He possessed a cultured, rather 
than a great intellect, varied accomplishments, much beauty 
of person, graceful manners, and was amiable and honor- 
able in character. 

Deacon Mather sat by his fireside, with a peculiarly proud 
and pleased expression spread over his countenance, holding 
an open letter in his hand, from which he had just been 
reading to his gentle. wife. 

' And so, Mr. Mather, this suitor of our Effie is wealthy.' 
' Immensely so, and bearing one of the oldest and most 
honorable names in the State.' 

' Do you know what his religious opinions are ? ' 
' His is a good orthodox family, of Puritan descent, 
madam.' 

Effie was married to a man of whom she was proud, to 
whom she gave her wreck of a heart, and who loved her 
with sincerity and generous devotion. 



EFFIE MATHER. 85 

Soon after their marriage, Mr. Warren and his beautiful 
bride sailed for France, where they intended to reside for 
some years. During the voyage, Effie suffered much from 
sea-sickness, and found in her husband the tenderest and 
most unwearied of nurses. One afternoon, he was sitting 
by her berth, while she slept, and was reading. Effie 
awoke and regarded him for some moments in silence, then 
asked languidly, ' What book is that you read, Henry ! ' 

'A work by Voltaire, my love.' 

'Voltaire!' cried Effie, in dismay — 'why, he is an 
Infidel writer, is he not ?' 

' So he is called — he certainly puts small faith in the 
traditions and superstitions of Christianity.' 

Startled and agitated, Effie looked her husband earnestly 
in the face, and asked, 

' Are you an Atheist ?' 

' Why, my love, I hardly know what I am. I cannot call 
myself a believer, yet I have not made up my mind fully to 
reject all ideas of religion. I acknowledge that I am very 
skeptical, but I am truly sorry if my avowal gives you any 
pain.' 

Effie was silent for a moment, then replied — ' No, I am 
glad you have told me this. I like your frankness and 
independence. You do right to investigate and explore for 
yourself; only now let us examine this subject together.' 

From this time, while they remained on shipboard, 
Voltaire and Rousseau, Godwin and Shelley, were their daily 
companions, and very soon their bold speculations and 
subtle sophistries, their sarcasms and denunciations, exer- 
cised over Effie's unsettled mind and morbid feelings a 
terrible fascination. Unconsciously she exulted at every 
stout blow of argument, or keen shaft of satire aimed at 
that theology whose spirit she believed had oppressed her 
childhood, darkened her youth, and crushed her woman's 
heart, as in an iron gauntlet. On reaching Paris she dili- 
gently applied herself to acquire a better knowledge of the 
8 



86 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

language, that she might be able to study the great French 
philosophers in the original. Her interest never slackened 
— she read, and conversed and inquired as eagerly as ever 
a troubled soul sought for Christian truth, till she felt herself 
altogether assured — till Effie, the Puritan's daughter, was 
an atheist ! 

She exulted and gloried in her new faith, or, rather, want 
of faith — she was an enthusiast, a zealot in unbelief. She 
strengthened and confirmed her husband and many others 
in error, by her rare eloquence, her wit, and her daring, 
impetuous spirit. She was ever surrounded in society by a 
circle of philosophers, wits, poets and orators, and her 
ambition was gratified by the homage which her intellect 
and beauty commanded. As all belief in a future life 
became to her a dream of the past, a mere child's fable, 
she grew more eager for the honors and pleasures of this. 
Her love of admiration became a passion ; she sought to 
perfect herself in brilliant accomplishments, and made an 
absolute study of dress, and equipage, and luxurious living. 
She was a French woman in all save amours ; for these 
she was too cold and proud. She honored her husband, 
though she loved him not, and heard with scorn, or utter 
indifference the sentimentalities and dramatic appeals of 
her admirers. 

Thus lived Effie Warren through five years, in a giddy 
whirl of excitement and dissipation, and then, at the urgent 
entreaty of her husband returned with him to America — 
returned with faded beauty, and broken health, but most ill 
with the soul-sickness of ennui. 

Late one Saturday afternoon, in September, in a small 

New England village, some twenty miles from L , a 

group was gathered round an elegant travelling carriage 
which had broken an axle and was arrested in the midst of 
the street. It was near sunset, and remembering their 
whereabouts, the travellers saw at once the impossibility of 



EFFIE MATHER. 87 

having their carriage repaired until the following Monday. 
Mr. Warren handed out his pale and languid wife, who, on 
her part, was dismayed at the prospect of spending a New 
England Sabbath at a low village inn, and, supporting her 
tenderly, walked up the elm-shaded street, — his servants 
following with the baggage. 

On the way, Mr. Warren remarked a remarkably noble- 
looking young man approaching, with a lady leaning on 
his arm. Suddenly Effie started and uttered an exclamation 
peculiarly French. The stranger in passing, met her eye, 
paused and gazed at her with a heart-gaze which pierced 
through splendid dress, and foreign manner, and faded 
beauty, and changed expression, and exclaimed : ' Effie 
Mather!' 'Charles Leonard!' said Effie, extending her 
hand, with a bright smile, a smile of other days. Then 
followed introductions of Mr. Warren and Mrs. Leonard ; 
then came earnest proffers from the young clergyman and 
his wife of the hospitalities of their cottage home. These 
invitations were not refused after the travellers had caught 
sight of the humble village inn, — and thus it was that Effie 
found herself the guest of her old suitor — her only love. 

The pleasant parsonage was situated a little out of the 
village, on the banks of a small stream, and almost buried 
in trees and vines. The parlor, into which the guests were 
shown, was simply furnished, but a piano and a guitar, a 
few fine pictures, some pretty vases and statuettes, and a 
profusion of flowers, gave to it an air of grace and artistic 
elegance. 

Effie saw with some surprise that the wife of Mr. Leonard 
was not altogether unlike herself. There was much the 
same style of face, but more delicacy of form and more 
softness of manner. 

Mrs. Leonard had one child, an infant daughter, who was 
brought into the parlor in the course of the evening. 
' What do you call your babe .?' asked Effie, smiling softly 
at the beauty of the child. ' Charles named her Effie,' 
replied Mrs. Leonard. 



OS GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Effie looked involuntarily and half inquiringly up into the 
pleasant eyes of the father — a tide of sweet, sad emotion 
flooded her heart, and the first genuine blush of feeling she 
had known for years crimsoned her cheek. 

Ah, had Effie herself been a mother, she might not have 
been so lost in error. ' Little children' in their love and 
innocence are such eloquent preachers of the Divine Master 
who blessed them. 

The evening passed agreeably in a conversation where 
Mr. Leonard's intellectual power, purity of principle and 
warmth of feeling, the culture and affability of Warren, the 
refinement and varied acquirements of Effie, and the faith 
and beautiful enthusiasm of Emily, were alike unconsciously 
displayed. 

The travellers, somewhat fatigued, retired early. Mr. 
Warren seemed to fall asleep at once, but Effie was restless, 
was haunted by mournful memories and disturbed by 
passionate regrets. She had thought all the older emotions 
of love and tenderness had long ago perished and been 
buried deep beneath pride and philosophy, ambition and 
pleasure — but now her heart seemed giving up its dead. 

Suddenly a soft, sweet strain of melody rose from the 
room beneath. It was Emily, singing her evening hymn. 
Then followed the deep, earnest tones of the young minis- 
ter, in the evening prayer. Effie raised her head and 
listened, and though she could hear no words distinctly, that 
fervent voice sank into her soul, and when it ceased, she 
buried her face in the pillow and wept as she had not wept 
for years. She had abjured, as an oppression and a super- 
stition, the holy faith made vocal in that hymn — she had 
wholly denied the God and Saviour acknowledged in that 
prayer ; why wept she, then, till far into the night, with a 
fearful sense of desolation and despair ? 

The day following, for the first time since leaving Amer- 
ica, Mr. and Mrs. Warren found themselves in a Protestant 
church. Mr. Leonard preached. The deep, rich tones of 



EFFIE MATHER. 89 

his voice filled the house like the notes of an organ. Ever, 
as fell from his lips a noble sentiment, or a divine hope, 
Effie would look on the countenance of the young wife at 
her side, and mark it kindle with a quick sympathy, a 
chastened pride and love pure as an angePs — till, to hide 
her own emotion, she was forced to draw closely over her 
face the thick folds of her costly veil. 

Mr. Leonard had only morning and evening service, and 
in the afternoon, accompanied his guests in a stroll along 
the pleasant banks of the stream. On their return, Emily 
played some grand pieces from Handel and Beethoven, 
very finely ; but Efiie ' did not play sacred music well,' she 
said. The next morning, however, she sat down and played 
' Von Weber's Last Waltz ' with exquisite feeling, giving 
with mournful expression — 

* The cloud of sadness in a heaven of beauty — 
The sob of anguish in a heaven of sound.' 

This was her farewell. 

From the day she reached her father's house, and found 
herself amid old scenes and associations, Effie became 
more frail and spiridess. Though she had but a slight 
cough, she was so evidently in a decline, that all saw she 
would not be able to endure a winter at the North. She 
yielded a passive consent to the wish of her husband to go 
at once to the South. In parting, she listlessly took the 
hands and mechanically kissed the cheeks of her father and 
brother, but she clung long about the neck of her mother, 
weeping. When she was lifted into the carriage, she sank 
back upon the cushions, and closed her eyes, and thus 
remained till far out of the village. 

At the close of her weary journey, Effie found herself in 
a fair and quiet home, surrounded with luxury and love- 
liness. But it needed more than the ever-blooming flowers, 
the orange groves and soft airs of Florida, to give strength 
to that exhausted frame, to bind up that broken spirit ; more 
8* 



90 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

than all the kindly ministrations of nature, more than 
the daily offering of a great love, whose very devotion 
seemed full of mute reproach. Effie's true life died out 
years before ; the false one was but going now. 

So rapidly she failed, that ere the winter had passed, she 
was confined almost altogether to her couch, though she was 
carefully and elegantly dressed every day. 

It was a bright morning in March. The night previous 
EfRe had suffered much from a hemorrhage of the lungs, 
but she now slept quietly, while her husband, pale and 
anxious, watched by her side. Suddenly she awoke, and 
Mr. Warren observed a strange light in her eye, and a 
strange energy in her voice, as she desired him to summon 
her dressing-maid. 

After ringing for Annette, Mr. Warren left the chamber 
and walked up and down the piazza, in front of the house, 
for nearly an hour. Then he was recalled to the sick-room, 
by the little maid, who looked troubled when she gave the 
message. As he entered the chamber, he paused in aston- 
ishment and dismay. There sat Eflie, in an elegant 
fauteuil, arrayed as for a ball, or fete. She wore her most 
magnificent court dress, of gold-wrought satin and richest 
lace. On her brow was a tiara of brilliants ; her slender 
arms and fingers and her sunken neck were gleaming with 
jewels. She sat erect, with an indescribable air of pride 
and defiance. 

' Great Heaven ! Effie, what does this mean ? ' cried 
Warren. 

' It means, Henry, that this is a great day. It means 
that I have made myself ready to receive my royal guest — 
Death ! Before this hour has passed, I shall be no more — 
no more. I could not lie in my bed, sobbing and shrinking 
like a frightened child ; I would meet my conqueror with 
calmness, in the triumph of my philosophy, with the pride 
of a spirit free and unbroken to the last. You weeping, 
Henry,' she said, seeing her husband's uncontrollable emo- 



EFFIE MATHER. 91 

tion, ' this is weakness in you — he a philosopher. Believe 
me, it is not hard for me to die. I am very weary, and 
long to repose deep in the bosom of Mother Earth, where 
the struggle and the hurry and the noise of life shall never 
come. I have tasted of life's most tempting goblets ; love, 
and pleasure, and power, and knowledge, and now I thirst 
only for that last charmed draught of sleep and forgetful- 
ness, called death. 

' Tell my mother, Henry, that her love was warm at my 
heart, even at the last hour ; and tell my father that 1 passed 
away happy and tranquil, in the full belief that death is but 
aji eternal sleep.'' 

At tliese words, Warren, who was kneeling by Effie's 
side, overcome by grief and a nameless dread, bent his 
face upon her knee, and sobbed aloud. Effie laid her 
already cold hand upon his head, saying in a scarcely 
audible voice, ' Poor Henry ! Poor Henry ! ' For some 
moments the sorrowing husband remained thus ; then feel- 
ing that hand growing colder and heavier on his brow, he 
raised himself and looked up, o?i the face of the dead. 

The summer succeeding the death of Effie found Henry 
Warren in his paternal home, in Massachusetts, broken in 
health and spirit ; a hopeless and comfortless mourner, who 
had seen the one light of his life go down in thick darkness 
which promised no morning. He was finally roused from 
the apathy of his grief by the illness of his aged mother, 
for whom he had ever had an uncommon affection. Mrs. 
Warren was a woman of noble character ; gentle, but firm ; 
of large sympathies, liberal principles, and earnest piety. 
Though now a great sufferer, from a most painful disease, 
she was never heard to utter a murmur or complaint. 
Strong was her faith, child-like her submission, and ' un- 
troubled flowed the river of her peace.' 

Day after day watched Henry Warren by the side of his 
sick mother, his dying mother. There, for the first time 



92 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

for many years, he read God's word, and there heard a wise 
and beautiful interpretation of its sacred mysteries. 

Oh, how, in such hours, was he borne back to his inno- 
cent and happy childhood ; to the pure hope of his youth, 
ere a cold skepticism came to blight the opening summer of 
his life ! But now again was Heaven's truth falling like 
freshening dew on that desolated life ; now he heard in 
times of stillness the old faith knocking at his heart ; now 
he felt God's angel wrestling mightily with his spirit. 

He knew that his mother prayed for him. Often at 
night, when she thought him asleep in the room adjoining 
her own, did he listen to her dear voice pleading with 
Heaven for the salvation of her son, and deep in his heart 
he responded ' Amen ! ' 

One Sabbath afternoon, a short time before she died, 
Mrs. Warren desired to receive the sacrament. The pastor 
came, and the simple supper of the Lord was spread in 
that ' upper chamber.' During the prayer of the good 
minister, Henry, kneeling by the side of his mother, made 
there his silent and solemn consecration, and when it was 
finished, he arose and said : 

' Mother, I believe in God — in Revelation — I trust in 
Christ Jesus ; let me partake of this holy sacrament with 
you ! ' 

' Oh God, T thank Thee ! ' murmured that mother, with 
clasped hands and tearful eyes ; and Heaven was with that 
little group, blessing and sanctifying anew the symbols of 
redeeming love. 

Chastened with gratitude and hope was the grief of Henry 
Warren for his beloved mother. Few were the tears shed 
for that aged saint, who in triumph had finished her course, 
and whose countenance wore even in death, a sweet and 
placid smile — the sign of perfect peace — the assurance of 
immortality. 



APOLLONIA JAGIELLO. 



During a late visit to Washington, it was my good fortune 
to become acquainted with Mile. Jagiello, the Hungarian 
heroine, who was then staying at the house of her friend, 
M. Tyssowski. Becoming much interested in her, I re- 
quested to be allowed to write a sketch of her 'strange, 
eventful history ; ' knowing that, in so doing, I should not 
only give myself a rare pleasure, but gratify my country- 
women, to most of whom the brilliant career of the brave 
woman-soldier is more a dazzling dream of romance than 
a simple reality. To assist me in this pleasant work, a 
friend of Mile. Jagiello, Major Tochman, of Washington, 
was so kind as to furnish me with some memoranda of 
facts, which she had communicated to him ; and upon this 
authority I shall proceed in my brief biography. These 
notes are not as full as I could desire in regard to the pri- 
vate life and personal relations of the heroine ; but I under- 
stand that there are reasons why matters of this kind should 
not now be made public. 

Apollonia Jagiello was born in Lithuania, a part of the 
land where Thaddeus Kosciusko spent his first days. She 
was educated at Cracow, the ancient capital of Poland, — a 
city filled with monuments and memorials sadly recalling to 
the mind of every Pole the past glory of his native land. 
There, and in Warsaw and Vienna, she passed the days of 



94 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

her early girlhood. She was about nineteen when the 
revolution of 1846 broke out at Cracow. * That revolution,' 
says Major Tochman, ' so little understood in this country, 
although of brief duration, must and will occupy an impor- 
tant place in Polish history. It declared the emancipation 
of the peasantry and the abolition of hereditary rank, all 
over Poland ; proclaimed equality, personal security, and 
the enjoyment of the fruits of labor, as inherent rights of 
all men living on Polish soil. It was suppressed by a most 
diabolical plot of the Austrian Government. Its mercenary 
soldiery, disguised in the national costume of the peasants, 
excited against the nobility the ignorant portion of the 
peasantry in Gallicia, which province, with other parts of 
ancient Poland, had to unite in insurrection with the republic 
of Cracow. They were made to believe, by those vile 
emissaries, that the object of the nobility was to take advan- 
tage of the approaching revolution, to exact from them 
higher duties. In the mean time the civil and military 
officers of the Austrian Government circulated proclama- 
tions, at first secretly, then publicly, offering to the peasants 
rewards for every head of a nobleman, and for every noble- 
man delivered into the hands of the authorities alive. Four- 
teen hundred men, women, and children, of noble families, 
were murdered by the thus excited and misled peasantry, 
before they detected the fraud of the Government. This 
paralyzed the revolution already commenced in Cracow. 

' The Austrian Government, however, did not reap the 
full fruit of its villany ; for when the peasants perceived it, 
they arrayed themselves with the friends of the murdered 
victims, and showed so energetic a determination to insist 
on the rights which the revolution at Cracow promised to 
secure to them, that the Austrian Government found itself 
compelled to grant them many immunities.' 

This was the first revolution in which Mile. Jagiello, who 
was then in Cracow, took an active part. She was seen on 
horseback, in the picturesque costume of the Polish soldier, 



APOLLONIA JAGIELLO. 95 

in the midst of the patriots who first planted the white eagle 
and the flag of freedom on the castles of the ancient capital 
of her country, and was one of the handful of heroes who 
fought the battle near Podgorze, against a tenfold stronger 
enemy. Mr. Tyssowski, now of Washington, was then in- 
vested with all civil and military power in the Republic. 
He was elevated to the dictatorship for the time of its 
danger, and by him was issued the celebrated manifesto 
declaring for the people of Poland the great principles of 
liberty to which we have already alluded. He is now a 
draughtsman in the employ of our Government. 

After the Polish revolution which commenced in Cracow 
was suppressed. Mile. Jagiello reassumed female dress, and 
remained undetected for a few weeks in that city. From 
thence she removed to Warsaw, and remained there and in 
the neighboring countiy, in quiet retirement among her 
friends. But the revolution of 1848 found her again at 
Cracow, in the midst of the combatants. Alas ! that revolu- 
tion was but a dream ; it accomplished nothing ; it perished 
like all other European revolutions of that year, so great in 
grand promises, so mean in fulfilment. But their fire is 
yet smouldering under the ashes covering the Old World — 
ashes white and heavy as death to the eye of the tyrant, 
but scarcely hiding the red life of a terrible retribution from 
the prophetic eye of the lover of freedom. 

Mile. Jagiello then left Cracow for Vienna, where she 
arrived in time to take a heroic part in the engagement at 
the faubourg Widen. But her chief object in going to 
Vienna was to inform herself of the character of that revo- 
lution, and to carry news to the Hungarians, who were then 
in the midst of a revolution, which she and her countrymen 
regarded as involving the liberation of her beloved Poland, 
and presaging the final regeneration of Europe. With the 
aid of devoted friends, she reached Presburg safely, and 
from that place, in the disguise of a peasant, was conveyed 
by the Hungarian peasantry carrying provisions for the 
Austrian army, to the village of St. Paul. 



96 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

After many dangers and hardships in crossing the country 
occupied by the Austrians, after swimming on horseback 
two rivers, she at last, on the 15th of August, 1848, reached 
the Hungarian camp, near the village of Eneszey, just 
before the battle there fought, in which the Austrians were 
defeated, and lost General Wist. This was the first Hun- 
garian battle in which our heroine took part as volunteer. 
She was soon promoted to the rank of lieutenant, and, at 
the request of her Hungarian friends, took charge of a 
hospital in Comorn. Whilst there, she joined, as volunteer, 
the expedition of twelve thousand troops, under the com- 
mand of the gallant General Klapka, which made a sally, 
and took Raab. She returned in safety to Comorn, where 
she remained, superintending the hospital, until the capitu- 
lation of the fortress. 

She came to the United States in December last, with 
Governor Ladislas Ujhazy and his family, where she and 
her heroic friends received a most enthusiastic welcome. 

I know that some of my gentle and delicate countrywomen 
may shrink from a contemplation of the martial career of 
Mile. Jagiello, or regard it with amazement and a half- 
fearful admiration. But they must remember for what a 
country she fought, with what an enemy she contended. 
Loving Poland with a love which had all the strength and 
fervor of a religion, and hating its haughty and brutal op- 
pressors with all the intensity of a high and passionate 
nature, when the hour of uprising and fierce struggle came 
at last, could she do otherwise than join her brothers ? To 
cheer them with her inspiring voice ; to strike with them for 
the one glorious cause ; a great purpose, making strong her 
girlish arm, and the dawn of a great hope brightening in 
her eyes. Ah ! those beautiful eyes ! How often must her 
brave followers, when sad and disheartened, have turned to 
them for cheer and guidance, drinking fresh courage from 
those fountains of light. 



APOL.LONIA JAGIELLO. 97 

The eagerness with which our heroine took part in the 
Hungarian revolution, proved that her patriotism was not 
confined within the narrow limits of her native land ; that 
she loved freedom even more than Poland. In the situation 
which she so readily filled in the hospital at Comorn, as the 
patient nurse of the wounded, and the comforter of the 
dying, she revealed beneath the heroism of the soldier the 
tenderness of the woman — a heart within a heart. The 
hand which had clenched the sword with a firm grasp, and 
been stained with the base blood of the Austrian, looked 
very soft and fair as it smoothed the pillow of the sick, or 
held the cooling draught to fever-parched lips ; and the eye 
which had looked steadily on the mad rush, the flame and 
tumult of the fight, and flashed its beautiful defiance in the 
face of the advancing foe, grew wondrous pitiful as it gazed 
upon the bleeding and prostrate patriot, and dropped fast 
tears on the dead brow of a fellow-soldier. 

The daughters of Poland and Hungary are a grand race 
of women. They do not assume the garb and take the arms 
of the soldier, nor do his terrible work, because they are 
stern, and hard, and warlike by nature, but because all that 
is dear to them on earth — home, honor, liberty, and love — 
are at stake. They fight with and for the best loved of 
their hearts — their great hearts, which cannot comprehend 
a feeling that would cause them to shrink from the side of 
a father, a husband, or a brother, in the hour of extremes! 
peril. Their courage, after all, is of that quality which 

' Is but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er its mate.' 

Many were the heroines actively engaged in serving the 
cause of Freedom during the Hungarian struggle. Not 
alone in the saddle and under arms, but in ways and capaci- 
ties not less honorable, though perhaps less imposing. 
General Pragay, in his work on Hungary, says : 

'No sooner had Windischgratz gratified himself with 
9 



98 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

executions by the dozen, and guarded the bastions of Vienna 
with cannon, than he marched his disposable force, amount- 
ing to seventy-two thousand men, upon Hungary. It was 
quite impossible to resist such a power in extended can- 
tonments, and after several unimportant actions, Gorgey 
ordered a general retreat to Raab, in the middle of Decem- 
ber. Here intrenchments were thrown up, on which the 
noblest ladies worked with their delicate hands.'' 

A sister of Kossuth served during the war as general 
superintendent of hospitals ; Mile. Mary Lagos served as 
adjutant in the brigade of General Asherman. She was 
taken prisoner, and her fate is unknown. Mile. Carol 
served as captain ; she was a niece of General Windisch- 
gratz, and fought twice against the Austrians commanded 
by her uncle. She was taken prisoner in a battle fought 
against the infamous Haynau, and shot by his order. 

Not vainly have those glorious women dared, and strug- 
gled, and endured, and died. The world needs such lessons 
of heroic devotion, of the soul's greatness triumphant over 
mortal weakness ; and their names, wreathed with the rose, 
the laurel, and the cypress, shall be kept in sweet, and 
proud, and mournful remembrance, while heroes are hon- 
ored, and great deeds can rouse human hearts, and while 
the tyrant is hated of man and accursed of God. 

Mile. Jagiello is now with us. She seems to regard the 
land of her adoption with admiration and affection, though 
looking on its beauty and grandeur through the tearful eyes 
of an exile. 

Those of my readers who have never seen the Hungarian, 
or rather Polish heroine, may be interested in hearing some- 
thing of her personnel. She is now about twenty-four, of 
medium height, and quite slender. Her arm and hand are 
especially delicate and beautiful, and her figure round and 
graceful. She is a brunette, with large dark eyes, and 
black, abundant hair. Her lips have an expression of great 
determination, but her smile is altogether charming.. In 



APOLLONIA JAGIELLO. 99 

that the woman comes out; it is arch, soft, and winning — 
a rare and indescribable smile. Her manner is simple and 
engaging, her voice is now gentle or mirthful, now earnest 
and impassioned ; sometimes sounds like the utterance of 
some quiet, home-love, and sometimes startles you with a 
decided ring of the steel. Her enthusiasm and intensity of 
feeling reveal themselves in almost everything she says and 
does. An amusing instance was told me when in Washing- 
ton. An album was one day handed her, for her autograph. 
She took it with a smile ; but on opening it at the name of 
M. Bodisco, the Russian ambassador, pushed it from her 
with flashing eyes, refusing to appear in the same book 
with ' the tool of a tyrant ! ' 

Yet, after all, she is one to whom children go, feeling the 
charm of her womanhood, without being awed by her great- 
ness. She bears herself with no military air ; there is 
nothing in her manner to remind you of the camp, though 
much to tell you that you are in the presence of no ordinary 
woman. 

The life of a soldier, with its dangers and privations, 
with all its fearful contingencies, was not sought by Jagiello 
for its own sake, nor for the glory it might confer, but was 
accepted as the means to a great end. She believed that 
the path of her country led through the Red Sea of revolu- 
tion, to liberty and peace, and stood up bravely by the side 
of that country ; her young heart fired, and her slender arm 
nerved with a courage that knew not sex. 

As the women of America have given their admiration to 
her heroism, they will give also, and more abundantly, their 
sympathy to her misfortune. She bears to our shores a 
weary and an almost broken heart. May she here find 
repose and consolation, while awaiting that brighter day, 
which shall as surely dawn for her unhappy country, as 
freedom is the primal right of man, as oppression is a false- 
hood and a wrong, and as God is over all. 



THE VOLUNTEER. 



CHAPTER I. 



' And so, Margaret, you will not promise to use your 
influence toward obtaining this appointment for me ?' 

' Ah, Herbert, do not urge me ! I cannot do this thing 
consistently with my own sense of duty ; and I am amazed 
and shocked that you should so far forget your often avowed 
principles as to desire to engage in this most unrighteous 
war — a war without one just cause, or one noble object ; 
but waged against an unoffending people, in the rapacity of 
conquest, and for the extension and perpetuation of human 
slavery. You surely are not hoping thus to win true glory.' 

' But I am ambitious of distinction^ which I must have, and 
which I can gain in no other way that I can see.' 

' And why this sudden thirst for distinction ? This in- 
tense ambition is certainly a new development of your 
character, and it troubles me more than I can tell. Why is 
it that you desire a great name more than ever before ?' 

' If you cannot guess, if you must be told, dear Margaret, 
it is that I may stand on an equality with you. Now, your 
wealth and position humiliate me.' 

' Does my love humiliate you, Herbert r' 

' No, dearest.' 

' And, yet, is it not of infinitely greater worth ? All the 
wealth and honors of the world could not buy it.' 



THE VOLUNTEER. 101 

* I know that, Margaret ; but, before the world, I cannot 
be lifted up even by your dear arms to a position I have not 
earned. I cannot consent to receive every thing, where I 
would give all. I forgot my manly pride in the one ab- 
sorbing sense of my love, when I sued for your hand ; but 
it has since made itself remembered ; and you have felt, 
without understanding it, in what you have called my 
'strange moods.' Your noble love is to me the crown of 
life, yet I can never wear it in peace, until the world shall 
acknowledge my right to it. 

' Now, as I have said, your influence with your uncle may 
gain for me the command of a volunteer company. I have 
a bold h(;art and a strong arm, and, in a short time, I am 
confident I can gain distinction as a soldier.' 

' And lose my esteem. Herbert, I never can consent to 
this ; and I tell you frankly, that what little influence I 
possess 1 shall use against this mad enterprise of yours. 
Forgive me if I pain you, dearest ; but out of the very love 
1 bear you I must oppose you in this. 1 speak only of love, 
though I might speak of rights and claims too strong, too 
solemn, to be lightly set aside.' 

' Then I must bid you good morning, and try my fortune 
elsewhere.' 

It was in the elegant parlor of a handsome house in one 
of our Western cities, that the above conversation took 
place, between a pair of betrothed lovers, on a morning in 
the year 1846. 

Margaret Neale was an orphan, and the heiress to great 
wealth. She was the ward of an uncle, with whom she 
resided. Herbert Moore was a poor, obscure boy when he 
first fell under the notice of the father of Margaret, who 
employed him in various capacities, gave him a fine mer- 
cantile education, and, a short time previous to his own 
death, advanced him to the post of confidential clerk. In 
this situation, which was continued to him after the death of 
his patron, Herbert was able to support himself well, and 
9* 



102 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

to assist his widowed mother, who had but a small income 
of her own. He was a young man of fine intellect, of a 
warm and generous heart, but of a quick, passionate temper, 
and, as we have seen, of an excessive and morbid pride. 
His native independence was not subdued, but rather 
augmented, by the great obligations under which he had 
been placed by the kindness of Mr. Neale ; and when, after 
the death of his benefactor, he was thrown much into the 
society of the beautiful heiress, it was ' against his very will 
and wish transojressinc^,' that he loved her and told her of 
his love. And this he never would have revealed, had he 
not read, in the involuntary blush, the downcast eyes, and 
the low, trembling voice of Margaret, the sweet secret of 
her own gentle soul. After the avowal had been made, and 
the first raptures of the accepted lover were past, Herbert 
Moore began bitterly to reflect on the light in which he 
might be viewed as the betrothed of Miss Neale — he, the 
penniless protege^ almost the creature of her father. He 
feared being thought a mercenary, poor-spirited schemer, 
who had made use of extraordinary opportunities of access 
to the lovely young heiress to gain her affection and her 
fortune, giving nothing which the world would deem an 
adequate return. These thoughts fretted and stung the proud 
heart of the sensitive young man, until he almost looked 
upon himself as an upstart and an adventurer. 

Had Herbert Moore regarded the matter in a just light, 
he would have seen that his best vindication and assurance 
lay in the well-understood character of Margaret Neale. 
The parents of our heroine were Scotch, of the true old 
Covenanter stock, and from them she inherited some strong 
and peculiar characteristics. Though a sweet and loving 
woman, she possessed a vigorous mind, a clear judgment, 
and a hearty independence — traits and powers which, of 
themselves, raised her far above the suspicion of being 
blinded by a romantic passion, or duped into the acceptance 
of an unworthy love. Such was the high estimation in 



THE VOLUNTEER. 103 

which she was held by all who knew her, that any man 
whom she might have honored by the bestowal upon him of 
her hand and fortune, would, from that circumstance alone, 
have been deemed worthy of all respect. 

I trust that my reader will not think altogether ill of 
Herbert Moore that he did not thus understand the character 
and position of his affianced bride. To him she was all 
devoted love and clinging tenderness, and he did not per- 
ceive that her nature was to others more boldly defined ; 
that in society she was strong, impressive, decidedly, though 
delightfully, individual. Herbert's very gratitude to his 
former patron seemed to impress upon him the unworthiness 
of taking advantage of his position in the family, to win the 
hand and with it the immense fortune of the heiress. He 
must not be harshly censiired for his fault — a fault which 
sprung from a generous root, and one with which few young 
men, like him, handsome and penniless, can be charged. 

From long brooding over the subject of his relations 
towards Margaret Neale, there came upon Herbert Moore a 
burning desire to make for himself a name, which even in 
the eyes of the world, might balance the fortune of his 
bride. Yet how was this to be accomplished ? Though 
possessed of various talents, Herbert Moore was fully aware 
that he had no positive genius for any department of science 
or art. He was not a brilliant scholar, though educated and 
well read. He was not a poet, though truly poetical. He 
was not an artist, though of fine artistic tastes. Nor was he 
a musician, though he sung pleasantly at evening parties. 

Just at this perplexing period, there was great excitement 
throughout the country upon the Mexican war. Our hero's 
native State raised a regiment of volunteers, and his native 
city was called upon for a company. To the command of 
this company young Moore aspired, though in heart he 
utterly condemned the objects and conduct of the war. Mr. 
Neale, the uncle and guardian of Margaret, was a man of 
fortune and great influence in his city and State, and, with 



104 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

his countenance, Moore had no doubt of his appointment. 
But this ' aid and comfort ' the old gentleman, at his niece's 
request, declined giving to his young friend ; softening his 
refusal, however, by the kindest professions and advice, and 
by saying that the house of Neale & Co. could not spare 
their head clerk. 

After a few weeks, during which Moore was still bent 
upon his warlike purpose, having some hope from other 
quarters, the appointment was given to the son of an old 
soldier, a young man of decided military propensities. The 
consequence was, that Moore, in a sudden fit of passion and 
mortification, enlisted as a private in the company he had 
wished to command. 

Margaret Neale, with whom of late he had had but brief 
and constrained interviews, was informed of this piece of 
madness by her pastor, old Mr. McDonald, who had been as 
a father to Herbert and herself since their childhood. Mar- 
garet was quite overwhelmed by the sad news, and sent the 
good minister to her lover, to persuade him, even yet, to 
abandon his wild undertaking. When Mr. McDonald re- 
turned the next morning, he shook his head sadly, as he 
placed in Margaret's hand the following letter : 

' My dear Margaret, — If I may yet once more call you 
thus — once more, and for the last time, I shall so presume. 

' I failed to obtain the appointment which I desired ; failed 
partly, if not entirely, through your adverse influence ; and, 
in my first disappointment and chagrin, I have taken a rash 
step, but I will abide the issue, and submit to the penalty. I 
return you your troth — too high an honor, too priceless a 
treasure, to be possessed by a poor volunteer— an advent 
turer — a soldier in the ranks. My own must remain with 
you for ever. Though I go from you under a cloud, though 
you turn from me with coldness, despise and forget me, I am 
still yours — yours in life and in death ; and the thought of 
no other love shall ever visit this sad heart, than that which 
for a brief season uplifted it to heaven. 



THE VOLUNTEER. 105 

' My poor mother ! Need I commend her to your care 
and affection ? I dare not ask you to be to her as a daugh- 
ter, for the sake of our past love ; but for her own dear sake, 
and remembering your forgiving tenderness, I dare even ask 
this of you. 

' I leave my mother in the enjoyment of, I trust, a com- 
fortable income from her own little property and mine ; so 
her care will only be for me, her unworthy son. 

' And now, farewell ! I have no strength with which to 
part with you otherwise than thus, even should you con- 
descend to grant me an interview. If I ever return, it will 
be with the hard-earned honors which may make me even 
your peer, in the world's sight. If I return not, then you 
may know that in a soldier's obscure and crowded grave, 
under a foreign soil, there moulders away a heart which to 
its latest throb held you dearer than its life-blood. 

' Think as kindly of me as you can, for, oh ! Margaret ! 
if I have erred in this step, it is from my love, which, though 
so proud and impetuous, is all as tender and devoted. If I 
have brought sorrow to your heart, forgive ! for, believe me, 
the sharpest grief, the sternest agony, is mine. 
' May God be with you ! 

' Herbert Moore.' 

To the above letter, Margaret Neale returned this reply : 

' My dear Friend : — In a very few words I must give you 
my sorrowful farewell. My soul is too much shaken and 
my heart too cruelly torn with contending emotions for clear 
thought or calm speech. 

' I take back the plighted troth you return to me — for you 
no longer seem the man to whom so lately I joyfully and 
trustingly gave my love and my faith. 

'You are mistaken. Not from your love you do this 
wrong, but from your pride — your hard, unlovely pride — 
and dearer to you than my esteem and affection is your own 
fierce and fiery independence. For the triumph of your 



106 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

haughty will, and from a poor fear of the mean suspicions 
of the world, you have been willing to lay a crushing sorrow 
on a heart which has loved you only too well. God forgive 
you, Herbert ! God forgive you. 

' Your mother, for her own sake, shall be dear to me, and 
also for the sake of our lost love. 

' I bid you a last adieu ! If you return from war and con- 
quest, you will doubtless come as the renowned hero, to 
others — as the stranger, to me. At the last, I must speak 
the truth at my heart, and say, that in my eyes, as in the 
eyes of all lovers of justice and freedom throughout the 
world, all the honors gained by the actors in this most 
unholy war against a sister Republic will be so many dis- 
graces. Oh, believe me ! laurels won on such battle-fields 
may never light the brow with true glory, but only darken it 
with curses. 

' But I know that it is vain to talk thus to you at this late 
hour. The path you have chosen you will resolutely pursue. 
Herbert, I do not yet repent me of my opposition to your 
first project. I did what I thought right — God will care for 
the result. 

' With a prayer to Heaven for your preservation through 
the fearful dangers which you must encounter — a fervent 
pleading which is the deepest cry of my heart — I bid you 
farewell ! Margaret Neale.' 

It was on a chilly and cloudy morning that the embarka- 
tion of the regiment of volunteers took place from the 

wharf of the city of . Sad and touching beyond 

description were some of the scenes which then passed on 
the river banks, and on the thickly thronged boats. There 
a gallant officer gently unwound the arms of his fainting 
wife, and put her from the heaving breast whereon she 
would lean no more ; and here a bold young soldier strove, 
with a quivering lip, to release himself from the clinging 
embraces of his little brothers, and wrung the hand of his 
old father for the last time. :';^ 



THE VOLUNTEER. 107 

Herbert Moore had parted from his mother at her humble 
little home, but many of his friends accompanied him to the 
boat, and bade him farewell with much show of feeling. 
Just before the vessel put off, a close carriage drove down to 
the wharf, and the venerable Mr. McDonald came on board 
to take his misguided young friend by the hand, and bid him 
farewell. This affected Herbert more than any thing, and 
when he parted from the kind old man, his voice faltered 
and his eyes filled with tears. When Mr. McDonald re- 
turned to the carriage, he found the silken curtain withdrawn 
from the window, and, leaning back against the cushions, 
sobbing convulsively, was the dear child of his heart, Mar- 
garet Neale. The good pastor laid his hand tenderly upon 
hers, but said nothing. They drove a little way down the 
river, and then paused — for, with a burst of martial music, 
and with banners flying, the boats started. On the foremost, 
clad in the light-blue uniform of the common soldier, and 
with his blanket wrapped about him, stood, leaning against 
the pilot-house, a slight young man, scarcely beyond boy- 
hood, with a face singularly handsome, but saddened and 
gloomy. This was Herbert Moore, the ardent aspirant for 
military glory. Poor boy ! 

He now watched the carriage of Mr. Neale with an 
indefinable interest, a strange, sad yearning, though he did 
not know that it held Margaret. He could not see the 
mournful face at the window — those streaming eyes look- 
ing their last love upon him — those quivering lips murmur- 
ing brokenly his name, only his name. 

But the last shouts died away on the shore — rapidly and 
proudly those noble steamers swept down the river — the 
sound of the music came more and more faintly — the 
smoke-wreaths rose smaller and lighter — the banners 
gleamed in the far distance and disappeared. 

On the morning of the embarkation, the captain of the 
company into which Herbert Moore had enlisted received a 
letter, enclosing a check for one thousand dollars, which ran 
thus : 



J08 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

'Dear Captain Elliston, — I am directed by a near 
friend of Herbert Moore, a private in your company, and a 
young gentleman with whom, I believe, you are acquainted, to 
place in your hands the enclosed sum, for his benefit. This 
is to be used in any emergency — in sickness, or privation 
— or in case of his death, to defray the expenses of restoring 
his body to his friends. But, under all circumstances, the 
fact of the money having been placed in your hands is to be 
carefully concealed from the young man. Let him suppose 
that all extraordinary aid comes from his captain and friend. 

' Believing that you will readily pardon any trouble which 
this commission may give you, I remain yours, truly, 

' Hugh McDonald.' 



CHAPTER II. 

We must briefly chronicle the events in the soldier life of 
Herbert Moore. He saw the hard, rough side of his pro- 
fession ere he had been a month in the service. The hard- 
ships to which he was at once exposed, and his forced 
companionship with the coarse and vicious men of his 
regiment, many of whom were soldiers from desperation 
and a brutal propensity for pillage and bloodshed — and the 
absence from almost every breast of true chivalric feeling, 
and the love of glory — were surely enough to disenchant 
him most effectually. 

He first saw actual service at the bombardment of Vera 
Cruz. Stationed at one of the guns, (for he belonged to 
the artillery,) he bravely went through with his part; but at 
the close of the siege, and on the surrender of the city 
fortress, he, strangely enough, did not find himself counted 
as one of the heroes, or in any special manner distinguished 
above his fellows. 

In the capture of this city, our hero saw war in all its 



THE VOLUNTEER, 109 

most fearful horrors and dread calamities. Hoping to give 
some help or comfort to the wretched sufferers, he passed 
through the crowded hospitals — through the churches, 
convents, and private houses, converted into hospitals for the 
time — and witnessed scene after scene of mortal agony, 
bereavement, and desolation. He saw the chapel wherein 
knelt the praying nuns, when into their midst burst the 
shell, on its errand of death — mangling those fair forms 
and draining the blood of those innocent hearts. But he 
was most torched by a scene he witnessed on the evening 
of the day of surrender. Near the altar of one of the 
churches, into which he chanced to enter, lay a young 
Mexican, richly dressed and of a noble air, but apparently 
very near death. One arm was disabled, and ' his breast 
was all but shot in two.' Beside him knelt a beautiful girl, 
with large Spanish eyes, and most abundant dark hair, 
which had fallen from its band and was flowing over her 
shoulders. She had bound up the wounded arm in her 
mantilla of black lace, but that great wound in the breast, 
welling up incessantly its dark crimson tide, she had 
evidently despaired of stanching. She was weeping pas- 
sionately, and calling on her husband, or her betrothed, in 
the delicious love-language of Spain. It seemed that her 
Fernandes could no longer speak, but he looked his piteous 
love from his death-shadowed eyes, more eloquently than it 
could have been spoken in words ; and once, when that poor 
girl bent down to kiss the lips which strove vainly to articu- 
late even her name, her long, glossy locks swept across his 
bleeding breast — this seemed to trouble him, and he lifted 
them in his hand and tried to wind them about her head. It 
was like that death-scene in Browning, when the dying 
lover says — 

' Still kiss me ! — care 

Only to put aside thy beauteous hair, 

My blood will hurt!' 
10 



110 UKiilENWUOD LEAVES. 

At ihe terrible battle of Cerro Gordo, Herbert Moore 
performed prodigies of valor, and was twice wounded, but 
again, mysteriously, the praises of generals and the honors 
of the service passed him by, to fall on names already 
known, on epauletted shoulders. 

There was an incident connected with this battle which 
happened to our hero, but which he did not relate until a 
year or two had passed. Near his post, there fell, toward 
the close of the struggle, a Mexican officer, mortally 
wounded. Moved by a humane impulse, Moore ran to his 
assistance. As he stooped to raise the head of the dying 
man, a young son of the Mexican, thinking he came for 
plunder, caught up his father's dripping sword, and gave 
Moore a severe cut across the forehead. So it happened 
that the first wound which the chivalric volunteer received 
in his Mexican crusade was from the hand of a boy, 
avenging the death and defending the body of his father. 
But before Moore could clear his sight from the gush of 
blood which blinded him, a brutal fellow-soldier, who had 
witnessed the scene, with a fierce oath, thrust his bayonet 
into the breast of the poor lad, who, with one wild cry, fell 
forward upon his wounded father, and the blood of the two 
mingled, as they died. 

At Puebla, our hero lay for several weeks in the misera- 
ble hospital, sick from his wounds and with chills and fever. 
Here, but for the kind attention and what he deemed the 
wonderful liberality of Captain Elliston, he must have died 
of want and neglect. As it was, he recovered, and joined 
the army on its march for the capital city. At the storming 
of Chapultepec, the gallant Captain Elliston fell, and, while 
supporting his dying friend in his arms, Moore received a 
rifle-ball in his side, which stretched him on the turf. 
Captain Elliston was already insensible, and soon died, but, 
bleeding and -struggling in his agony lay young Moore, 
trampled on by contending foes, by the flying and the 
pursuing till there was a lull in the storm of battle — till its 



THE VOLUNTEER. 1 1 I 

thunders ceased and the fierce conflict was past. He was 
then borne, with hundreds of his fellow-soldiers, to a 
temporary hospital, where he underwent the torture of 
having the ball extracted from his side ; and when, on the 
day following, the American army took possession of the 
Mexican capital, our hero, exhausted and feverish, made his 
grand entree in a baggage-wagon. Little did he see of the 
glory and the triumph — little did his sad heart exult even at 
the shouts of the victorious troops when they poured into the 
Plaza Grande, and the star-spangled banner was hoisted 
over the National Palace. To the hospital he was again 
consigned, to wear away week after week in lonely suffering 
and privation, such as he had never known before. And 
this was his share of the glory and the spoils — the long- 
promised ' I'evels in the Halls of the Montezumas.' 

From this sickness Moore never wholly recovered while 
in Mexico ; and so miserable was he in body, and so often 
wandering in mind, that he had no distinct recollection of 
how he returned to the city of New Orleans, on his way 
home, with the remnant of his regiment. There they were 
detained some time, by illness, and waiting to receive their 
wretched pay, but finally disembarked amid the shouts and 
enthusiastic cheering of a motley crowd of citizens — 
Frenchmen, Jews, sailors, flatboatmen, and negroes. Per- 
chance a fair Creole shuddered as she looked at them, and 
thought of their deeds of blood and sacrilege, and crossed 
herself like a devout Catholic — or a dark brown Spaniard 
scowled at them from beneath his huge sombrero, and 
cursed them between his shining teeth. But all the most 
respectable citizens, all true American patriots, (as patriots 
go) delighted to honor the bold fighters, maimed, and sick, 
and ill-clad, as they were — and all doubtless felt, as their 
distinguished guest, the great American stateman, had felt, 
when with a youthful ardor warming his chilled veins, and 
the old lion crouchant in his nature thoroughly roused, ho 
declared that he himself ' would like to kill a Mexican.' 



112 GJJIEENWOOD LEAVES. 

Just before the steamer left the Crescent City, the friends 
of a gallant young officer came on board, to present him 
with an elegant sword, as a tribute to his bravery. When 
the chief citizen closed his flattering speech, and stepped 
forward to present the shining blade, lo ! the hero had no 
sword-arm with which to wield it ! But he grasped it in his 
left hand, and waved it over his head, while his sunken eye 
gleamed, and a hot flush kindled in his sallow cheek, and a 
deafening shout went up from the admiring crowd. 

Four days after this proud, animating scene, that young 
officer lay in his coffin, his one arm lying across his breast, 
and that sword — oh ! splendid mockery ! — glittering at his 
side. 



CHAPTER III. 

Nearly two years of sorrow and care had passed over 
the head of Margaret Neale, shadowing her fair brow, and 
dimming somewhat the morning brightness of her smile. 
In all those weary months, she had seemed to the world 
much as of old — calm and cheerful, and sweetly forgetful 
of herself; but those beneath the same roof with her might 
have told of sleepless nights, of hours of melancholy ab- 
straction, of the deathly whiteness of her lips at the news 
of any recent battle in Mexico, and of the fearful shrinking 
of her sight from the list of the killed and wounded. 

From her former lover, Margaret had never heard directly, 
and but seldom through his mother, to whom she was most 
affectionately and faithfully devoted, yet with whom she did 
not often converse on the subject nearest the hearts of both. 

Mrs. Moore had last heard from her son by a line from 
New Orleans, and was now daily looking for the arrival of 
the boat in which, if still surviving, he would return to his 
native city. 

It was late on a chilly and misty night that a gallant 



THE VOLUNTEER. 113 

Steamer, having on board some three hundred soldiers, com- 
ing up the Ohio, neared the city of . What a fearful 

contrast did those men present to the fiery -hearted young 
adventurers who had once embarked from that shore, amid 
the waving of banners, the peal of martial music, and the 
cheering shouts of thousands ! 

Standing in groups upon the upper deck, looking impa- 
tiently toward the city, speaking little and in low tones, 
were the returned volunteers — pale, gaunt, haggard, and 
disfigured men — shamefully shabby and dirty in appear- 
ance, forlorn and miserable in the extreme. 

On the forward part of the lower deck stood three rude 
coffins, containing the bodies of soldiers who had died on 
their passage up the Mississippi — officers, for such privates 
as had died, had been buried with little delay and no cere- 
mony on the river banks. 

On a large coil of cable, in the bow of the boat, and 
where the red light of the furnaces gleamed on his thin and 
pallid face, lay Herbert Moore, looking full fifteen years 
older than at the time when he left his native city and set 
out for the wars. Never, he afterward declared, had he 
suffered more, even in the hospitals of Mexico, than he 
endured in this passage from New Orleans ; from sickness, 
neglect, cold, and starvation. For the first time for many 
days he had now dragged himself from his miserable berth, 
to watch in pain and exhaustion, and apart from his com- 
rades, the approach to that dear home he had so wantonly 
abandoned. His heart was agitated with the most painful 
anxieties for the dear ones there, for not one letter had ever 
reached him in camp or hospital. He knew not if his 
mother yet lived — and Margaret, of her he dared not 
think ; he felt unworthy to breathe her name, even to him- 
self. 

Nearer and nearer shone the lights of the city ; a shout 
was sent up by an expectant crowd on shore, and feebly 
answered by those on board. In a few moments more, the 
10* 



114 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

boat lay at the wharf; her planks were thrown out, and the 
eager friends of the returned volunteers crowded around 
them. Almost every poor fellow had some one to take him 
by the hand and call him by his Christian name, and cor- 
dially welcome him home. Some there were who came to 
look around vainly, and vainly call on beloved names ; and 
one young boy, who came to meet his father, when some- 
thing was told him in a low voice by the captain, ran and 
flung himself on one of those rude coffins, and cried aloud 
in the agony of a sudden grief. 

But group after group the soldiers and their friends went 
on shore, until, with the exception of two or three sick in 
their berths, Herbert Moore was the only man left on board. 
No one came for him ; he was forgotten, abandoned, utterly 
friendless ! A feeling of awful desolation came over him — 
a dread sinking of the soul into the lowest depths of lone- 
liness and despair. He drew his worn cap over his eyes, 
wrapped his tattered blanket about him, stretched himself 
out, and prayed that he might die ! 

A hand was laid gently on his shoulder — he looked up, 
and the good pastor, Mr. McDonald, stood at his side. The 
old man gazed searchingly in the face of the soldier a mo- 
ment, and then folded him in his arms. Herbert could not 
speak, but he caught the hand of his venerable friend and 
raised it to his lips, in the excess of his humility and grate- 
ful joy. Half unconsciously, the young volunteer was car- 
ried on shore, in the arms of a stout serving man, and 
placed in a carriage, which was waiting for him and his 
friend. Weak and faint, he was sinking helplessly back 
against the cushions, when gentle arms were wound about 
him, and his head was drawn tenderly against a soft bosom. 

' Mother ! is it you ? ' asked the young soldier, in a trem- 
bling voice, for it was so dark that he could not see the face 
bending over him. There was no word given in answer, 
but a delicate hand glided over his emaciated face, and fast 
tears fell on his pale, scarred brow. 



THE VOLUNTEER. 115 

' Ah,' he murmured, ' I think I know the touch of that 
hand. Margaret^ is it you ? ' 

' Who should it be but Margaret, dear Herbert ? ' she 
replied, bending down, and kissing the cold, tremulous lips 
of the poor volunteer. Then Herbert buried his face in 
Margaret's bosom, and wept like a child. Love, sorrow, 
shame, disappointment, discouragement, and a great joy 
which was yet half sadness — all the long-suppressed feel- 
ings of his soul had way, in that passionate burst of tears. 

On reaching the house of Mr. Neale, Herbert found his 
mother awaiting him with open arms, and weeping with 
excess of grateful happiness. She had been in delicate 
health for some months past, and Margaret had taken her 
home, making herself the nurse and almost constant com- 
panion of her beloved friend. 

Herbert was borne at once to his chamber, and laid upon 
a bed from which he was not to rise for a weary length of 
time. The agitation and joy of his return were too much 
for his exhausted frame. He suffered a relapse, and for 
many weeks lay at the very gates of death, in a state of 
utter, blank insensibility and childish helplessness, or raving 
in delirium — fighting his battles over again, or shrieking 
from the thirst and burning fever of long marches. 

But through all this painful season, there was one fond, 
brave heart ever near him — one friend, faithful and strong 
in a love mightier than madness, or death, who stood beside 
him in ministering kindness, or bent above him in prayerful 
watching. In hours of complete prostration, when the soul 
of the sufferer slept a dull, lethargic sleep, and all others 
despaired, there was one who still hoped — whose fast faith 
would not give way ; and in those hours of frenzy when his 
own mother shrunk from him in fear, that gentle, yet 
courageous one would fix her soft, mild eyes upon his, with 
a divine spell of loving power ; and the wondrous soothing 
sweetness of her voice calmed the mad tumult in his brain, 
as the voice of the Prince of Peace once stilled the tempest, 
and smoothed the face of the sea. 



116 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

As Herbert slowly recovered, he was like a child in his 
unquestioning submission to Margaret, and in his dependence 
upon her for courage and consolation. But after a while, as 
memory returned, and every thing came back to him, he 
began to shrink with shame and self-reproach from her 
kindness. To find himself thus reduced to be an object of 
mere benevolent interest — to have her thus compassionate 
and care for him, in the angelic charity of her nature, after 
she had ceased to love him, was indeed the bitterest drop in 
the bitter cup he had been called upon to drain. He 
pondered long, sadly, and with burning cheeks, upon this, 
and as day after day he walked slowly up and down his 
chamber, leaning on the arm of his friend Mr. McDonald, 
he would sternly resolve to leave the hospitable roof of Mr. 
Neale, and to no longer tax the generous kindness of 
Margaret's forgiving heart. But as day after day there 
would come a gentle rap at his door, and Margaret would 
enter, to inquire after his health, in a cheerful, cordial tone 
— or to bring him some delicacy prepared by her own 
hands — or a basket of fresh flowers — or to read to him 
from a new book, or passages from the poets who had been 
favorites with them both in the dear old time — what wonder 
that his brave resolves failed him, were utterly forgotten ? 

In those sweet mornings, as he reclined on his luxurious 
sofa, when the cold light of the winter sunshine fell upon 
him pleasantly, as warmed by passing through curtains of 
rose, with his head leaning on his mother's shoulder, clasp- 
ing her thin, white hand in one still thinner and whiter, but 
with his dark, deep eyes fixed on another face than hers, 
and with the silver waves of that delicious voice flowing 
over his heart and soul — ah ! what wonder that he had not 
strength with which to go forth from the Paradise into which 
he had crept shivering and sick, forlorn and broken-hearted. 
But fiercer and more incessant grew the struggle in his 
breast, until summoning all his courage, and nerving himself 
with a true pride, he thus wrote to Margaret : 



THE VOLUNTEER. 1 17 

* My best and deaeest Friend : I know that I should crave 
forgiveness for once again addressing you ; but on your 
generosity you have taught me to rely with a perfect trust, 
which you will not harshly construe into presumption. 

' I must leave you, Margaret, now that I am so much bet- 
ter. I must return with my mother to our cottage home, 
and no longer be a tax on the kindness of your friends, or 
subject you to observation and idle remark, or myself to the 
charge of unmanly dependence. 

' I proudly left the mistress of my heart. I resigned, for 
a time, her love, bestowed upon me freely, in the wondrous 
beneficence of her great nature, for the mad chance of win- 
ning a distinction with which I might claim it as an equal — 
and I return, long after she has ceased to love me, return 
poor and unknown, to be the recipient of her bounty, the 
object of her charities — to owe to her my very life. Is not 
the measure of my humiliation full ? Is not my penance 
accomplished ? Do not say I write bitterly ; there is no 
bitterness in all my soul towards you. 1 accept my punish- 
ment with the more meekness, almost with joy, that it comes 
at last from a hand so beloved. 

* For all your angelic goodness I dare not attempt to thank 
you. The world has no language through which to convey 
to your heart the gratitude of mine. But it will find its w^ay 
to you, in hours of loneliness and silence, and breathe into 
your spirit its deep, inarticulate blessing — the blessing of 
one ready to perish — lifted by your hand from an abyss of 
humiliation and despair, into the light and hope of a better 
life. Yes, dear Margaret, a higher and worthier course than 
I have yet pursued seems opening before me. I am re- 
solved to put down forever that imperious and arrogant 
ruling spirit, pride, and to set my foot on that gilded form of 
selfishness called ambition — for to these did I not sacrifice 
Heaven's divinest good, life's most inestimable blessing? 
Henceforth I will speak and act more boldly and ardently 
for the great principles of the age, for justice and freedom, 



118 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

and every form and manifestation of God's eternal truth, 
without hope of favor, and without fear of the world. I 
cannot now conceive of any honor or reward which could 
tempt me to renounce a faith, or a purpose, however unpop- 
ular it might be, which I had once received into my heart — 
or of that degree of moral cowardice which would cause 
me to shrink from the advocacy of the right, were hosts 
arrayed against it. Dear Margaret, is it not something to 
have come to this, even through my sore disappointment, 
humiliation, and suffering, from that dark time when I went 
forth discrowned of your love, hopeless, reckless, and de- 
fiant ? 

' The hardship and sickness which have broken down my 
physical constitution, taken the youthful glow from my 
cheek and the light from my eye, and rendered me the 
wreck and shadow of my former self, have, I hope, in all 
humility, given health to my spirit, and a more enduring 
strength to my character. I have been taught a deeper rev- 
erence for woman, a higher estimate, a more adoring wor- 
ship of love — even that love, that "pearl of great price," 
which I, like a perverse and reckless child, flung from me 
into a sea, which rendered not back from its still depths the 
treasure of my impoverished soul. 

' Dear Margaret, I was never worthy of your love. I 
loved you too passionately and fitfully. At one moment, I 
would bow before you with the adoration of a devotee — 
and the next, stand over you with folded arms and imperious 
brow. I rebelled against the dominion of your love, when 
I should have resigned myself to it as to an angelic influ- 
ence, sent to surround me with an atmosphere of truth, and 
peace, and real greatness. I should have seen that, in be- 
stowing it upon me, you lifted me above the low breath of 
the world, and made me your companion and your peer. I 
should have felt, through all my soul, that he upon whose 
breast had drooped your queenly head, had been crowned 
with a glory and exalted by a joy to which all the honors 



THE VOLUNTEER. 119 

and pleasures in the great world's gift were poor and taste- 
less. But I was a boy, Margaret, a wayward, thoughtless, 
and short-sighted boy, whose faults you have long since for- 
given, though your justice and womanly dignity condemned 
the offender. 

' I hardly know why I have written this, except it be to 
reveal to you what suffering and your goodness have done 
for me. I go forth into life anew — not, as at first, leaping 
joyfully forward, as to run a merry morning course, on a 
festive day — nor, as at that other time, when, in the noontide 
of fiery passion, I dared mad chances, and made of exist- 
ence a scene of fierce conflict, within and without. It will 
be, henceforth, like a night journey, shadowed and some- 
what chill, but fresh, and lit by the light of holy stars, pure 
hopes, and high purposes ; they come forth even now, in 
the twilight of my despondency, are rounding into distinct 
and radiant forms, and setting their bright watch for me in 
the skies. 

' I know that my repentance and good resolves come too 
late. I know that it is at the eleventh hour that I go to do 
my Master's work. But something tells me that He will even 
now and thus accept me ; and that you, who have learned 
of Him, will have faith in me, and bid me be of good 
cheer. 

'And now, dear sister of my soul, farewell! I write not 
the word as once I wrote it, half in love and half in bitter- 
ness ; but with most reverential tenderness, and the deepest 
devotion of my nature. Do not think me hasty, or too im- 
patient to be free from the obligations you have laid upon 
me. I am so much better, that even my mother says I shall 
be quite able to go home to-morrow. The blessings of the 
widow and her son — her son, restored to her from the dead, 
shall remain with this household — shall rest upon you, 
dearest Margaret. 

' Herbert Moore.' 



120 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

For the half hour after Herbert had sent the above letter 
to Margaret, he sat in his cushioned arm-chair, by the 
writing-table, with his head bowed on his hands. It was 
evening, and there was a pleasant fire on the hearth, and the 
whole room had a bright and cheerful air. But E^erbert was 
sadder and lonelier than ever — his breast heaved with sup- 
pressed sighs, while a few large, irrepressible tears slid 
through the emaciated fingers pressed against his dark, 
sunken eyes. Some one rapped timidly at the door. Her- 
bert, thinking it a servant, called, ' Come in ! ' and did not 
rise. There was a quick, light step in the room, and look- 
ing up, Herbert beheld Margaret ! Before he could rise to 
meet her, she was kneeling, half-playfully, by the side of 
his chair, her fair hand laid on his arm. Her beautiful eyes 
were swimming in tears, soft, reproachful tears ; but a lov- 
ing and joyful smile was playing about her bright parted 
lips. 

'And so,' she said, ' you would dismiss your faithful 
nurse ! Ah, wilful and perverse child, what mad fancy is 
this ? ' 

' But, Margaret, I am better, nearly well, indeed, and so 
can spare you as a nurse.' 

' But, Herbert, I cannot spare my patient.' 

' Oh, Margaret ! ' cried Herbert, as he rose, and lifting her 
from her kneeling posture, looked earnestly in her eyes, 
' tell me what you mean by those words — they are too 
blessed for belief — I reel under them — can God be so 
good to me ? — can it be possible that you love me once 
more ? ' 

' Why, Herbert, I have never ceased to love you through 
all ; though, had you returned as the conquering hero, you 
would never have known of this ; and the hand, proudly 
demanded^ would have been yet more proudly withheld. 
But now, I glory in telling you that you still possess the sole 
love of my heart. I glory in your worthiness, in your noble 



THE VOLUNTEER. 121 

aspirations, in your victory over self, in your regeneration, 
and all I am and have is yours, yours alone.' 

' God be thanked for this unspeakable happiness ! Oh, 
Margaret, come nearer to my heart ! yet nearer, Margaret!' 

A slow familiar step is heard in the hall without, and the 
next moment there enters the good pastor. 

'And how is our patient to-night?' he asks — Ah! veiy 
much better, I perceive. Why, I have not seen such a 
bright face for a month. What sparkling eyes ! and, on 
my word, he has a positive color ! ' 

' So much better is he, father,' says Margaret, smiling, 
' that he grows proud and independent, and talks very com- 
placently of dismissing his nurse.' 

* But only,' answers Herbert, ' that she may reappear in 
another character ; and,' continued he, turning to Mr. Mc- 
Donald, ' on you, my dear sir, I must depend to give her 
back to me in that new and better character.' 

'With all my heart,' replies the minister, on whose mind 
the welcome light breaks at once. ' But what says my 
Maggie to this? ' 

But vainly he questions and looks around. Margaret is 
no longer in the room. The door is ajar, and though the 
light fall of such footsteps may not be heard, down the dim 
hall goes the gleam of a white dress, and the door of a 
pleasant chamber, belonging to a certain dear young lady, 
is opened and shut quickly. 



11 



THE POETRY OF WHITTIER.* 



Any talk about these poems seems most uncalled for in a 
journal in which so many of them have appeared, and whose 
readers so thoroughly understand and appreciate the peculiar 
powers and excellencies of the author. But then, again, the 
columns to which these poems first gave a rare and attractive 
grace, should not be the last to hail and chronicle their ap- 
pearance in a more enduring form — and, from those readers 
who know our author best, we are assured we may expect 
the readiest and heartiest respond to our word of praise. 

Before proceeding with our article, however, we will, if 
we may be indulged in so unprecedented a digression, give 
our readers a glimpse of our own present surroundings. We 
are on the seashore — the rock-bound coast of our poet's 
own glorious State. It is the sunniest yet softest of summer 
mornings, when the glory of heaven seems descending to wed 
with the beauty of earth. Between us and the ocean stands 
a dark pine-grove, but beneath and between the long branches 
swayed by the fresh morning wind, we can see the gleam 
and dashing of the waves, and the sound they give forth as 
they beat against the rocks comes softened and rounded to 
our ear. What time and scene could be chosen so in har- 
mony with our subject — the poetry of the volume before 

* Songs of Labor and other Poems. By John G. Whittier. Bos- 
ton : Ticknor, Reed, & Fields. 



THE POETRY OF WHITTIER. 123 

US ! — now fresh and invio-oratinp; like the airs of morning^, 
clear and cheering as the summer sunlight — now mournful 
and prophetic, like the murmur of the solemn pines — and 
now like the sea itself, rolling in upon us thought after thought 
of large volume and earnest power. In times of peace they 
come calm and continuous, with a steady, shoreward march, 
and with brightness on their crests — but when heaven is 
darkened by the exhalations of earth's wrongs and ills, when 
a stiff moral breeze is up and blowing, then they come dash- 
ing and surging, flinging their spray about, and making all 
tremble again with the great shock of their meeting. 

The poetry of Whittier is eminently healthful and benefi- 
cent in its spirit. It exalts moral truth and sanctifies labor — 
it is the expression a great humanity, and is ever in truest 
harmony with nature. More perhaps than any other poet, 
Whittier is remarkable for the obviousness of his meaning 
and the directness of his thought. He decorates little by 
gilding or garlanding, and conceals nothing in mists and 
shadows — he never loiters by the way, or suffers himself to 
be beguiled into pleasant and winding bye-paths. He seldom 
seeks to address our highest, most cultivated comprehension 

— is not exclusively the companion of our exalted moods — 
his largest thought may be received by a child in knowledge 

— he is the poet of every-day. He speaks to the hearts of 
the people a language they never fail to understand — stirring 
or tranquillizing, sweet or grand, it is always simple. His 
thoughts do not come to us by slow and subtle ways — they 
flash upon us — we meet them face to face, and we say : 
'Ah, we have known you before! — in a dim, unformed 
state you have floated around us, and been the companions 
of our best hours, and, though you have taken form and new 
beauty since then, you are no strangers.' 

The democratic principles of our poet are most shown in 
the Songs of Labor — the philanthropic and religious in the 
poems which follow ; but all are characterized by an ardent 
love of freedom, a deep reverence for humanity, and a great 



124 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

trust in God. Never were poet's gifts more heartily and 
unreservedly consecrated to the purposes of Heaven and the 
need of man. Wherever the poet may find himself — into 
whatever realms of imagination he may rise, into whatever 
depths of thought he may descend — he never loses himself 
in the mazes of vague conjecture, or passes beyond the 
atmosphere of prayer and praise, or sinks away from divine 
love and reliance, and the bonds of human fellowship are ever 
strong upon his spirit. It is his intense humanity which makes 
his enthusiasm so contagious and inspiring. We read with 
glowing lips and kindling eyes — our thoughts chime to his 
thoughts — our hearts seem to throb to the measure of his 
verse, and leap to the bold outbursts of his impassioned 
feeling. But, then, his poems of contemplation and senti- 
ment have about them an indescribable sweetness — a sort 
of Sabbath-quiet, most captivating and subduing. They suc- 
ceeded his stern and stormy lyrics of freedom and reform, 
like the morning song of birds after a night of tempest, or 
the evening harping of David after a day of battle. 

But it is time we spoke of the volume before us more in 
detail. 

The Dedication is one of the sweetest poems in the book ; 
yet there is in it a sort of half mournful acceptance of life 
which saddens us. While yet in the prime of manhood, with 
the strength and heat of summer in his heart, and its generous 
fruits around him, he places himself amid the shadows and 
scant foliage, and pale few flowers of latest autumn. Thus : 

* Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain : 

But what I have I give to thee, 
The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain, 
And paler flowers the latter rain 

Calls from the westering slope of life's autumnal lea, 

' Above the fallen groves of green, 
Where youth's enchanted forest stood, 
The dry and wasting roots between, 
A sober after-growth is seen. 

As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafd maple wood ! ' 



THE POETRY OF WHITTIER. 125 

Now this is very beautiful, but to reverse the old saying, 
there is in it ' less truth than poetry.' It is a needless 
anticipation — a taking of time by the forelock with a 
most uncalled-for and irreverent haste. The poet may have 
commenced his descent from the sun-bright summit of life, 
but while he fancies himself quite under the hill, he is yet on 
the first slope, where the light is still golden, though more 
mellow than of old ; the flowers warm with a richer than the 
early bloom, and where the abundant fruits of thought, labor, 
and experience, are just ripening to his hand. He has yet 
to gird on the arms of his greatest power — the wells of 
deepest wisdom and the fountains of refreshment are along 
his future way — a way that broadens, and lengthens, and 
does not grow barren, and 'bleak,' and 'wintry,' but loses 
itself in light and rest, not in shadow and tempest. ' The 
great and faithful soul is never left to know a bare and cold 
and desolate season, but his going hence, after a large and 
earnest life, is like a glad and triumphant harvest-home — 
when he goes from the fields whereon he has toiled in wea- 
riness or in hope, in sunshine and in rain, without lingering 
and without haste, and when like generous sheaves, golden 
and fully ripe, ' his works do follow him.' 

Of the Songs of Labor, we know not which to praise most ; 
for, in speaking of them, any thing less than praise is quite 
out of the question. Spirit and form — the original idea, the 
scope given to it and the voice in which it is heard, all gratify 
and satisfy us. Perhaps The Huskers is the most ballad- 
like and picturesque, but about all the others there is the true 
lyric sound and swing — a force and vitality which fill one 
with as genuine an enthusiasm for honest labor as the lays 
of Scott ever inspired for feats of arms and knightly en- 
counters. Yes, all honor to the poet who has thus not only 
assigned to 'hardy toil' the attractive grace of his healthful 
sentiment, and the beauty of Heaven's consecration, through 
the patient labor of Jesus, 

'A poor man toiling with the poor,' 
11* 



126 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

but claimed for it an almost royal dignity — pride, and 
courage, and heroic endurance, which put to shame the pre- 
tensions and achievements of warriors. 

We must indulge ourselves in extracting a few favorite 
stanzas from The Songs of Labor. These from the Ship- 
builders strike us as especially spirited and beautiful : 

' Ho ! strike away the bars and blocks, 

And set the good ship free ! 
Why lingers on these dusty rocks 

The young bride of the sea ? 
Look ! how she moves adown the grooves, 

In graceful beauty now ! 
How lowly on the breast she loves 

Sinks down her virgin prow ! 

* God bless her I wheresoe'er the breeze 

Her snowy wing shall fan, 
Beside the frozen Hebrides, 

Or sultry Hindostan ! 
Where'er in mart or on the main, 

With peaceful flag unfurl'd, 
She helps to wind (he silken chain 

Of commerce round the world ! ' 

The following verse from The Shoemakers contains a 
truth sufficiently well known to some women and all poets : 

' The foot is yours ; where'er it falls. 

It treads your well-wrought leather. 
On earthen floor, in marble halls, 

On carpet or on heather. 
StiJl there the sweetest charm is found 

Of matron grace or vcstaPs, 
As Hebe's foot bore nectar round 

Among the old celestials ! ' 

Here is a vivid home picture from The Drovers : 

* When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth, 

Instead of birds, are flitting ; 
When children throng the glowing hearth, 
And quiet wives are knhting ; 



THE POETRY OF WHITTIER. 127 

While in fire-light strong and clear 

Young eyes of pleasure glisten, 
To tales of all we see and hear, 

The ears of home shall listen.' 

Here is a verse from The Fisherman, which Campbell 
would have been proud to own : 

' Where in mist the rock is hiding, 
And the sharp reef lurks below ; 
Where the white squall smites in summer, 

A nd the autumn tempests blow ; 
Where, through gray and rolling vapor. 

From evening until mom, 
A thousand boats are hailing, 
Horn answering unto horn.' 

We have always considered Whittier the happiest of 
poets in scriptural figures and allusions. Here is one from 
the same poem, which charmed us greatly : 

' Our wet hands spread the carpet 
And light the hearfh of home ; 
From our fish, as in olden time, 
The silver coin shall come.' 

In The Huskers there are no verses that we can well 
detach. Its quaint and delicious pictures are seen best in a 
gallery by themselves. Yet we must break a stanza, to 
give one rare and pleasant passage : 

' Till broad and red as when he rose, the sun sunk down at last. 
And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed.' 

The verse following may be given entire : 

* And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream and 
pond, 
Flamed the red radiance of a sky set all afire beyond. 
Slowly o'er the Eastern sea-blufTs a milder glory shone, 
And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!^ 

The Lumbermen, the last, is perhaps the finest poem of 



128 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

the series. The following verse, in the description of the 
mountain-land where toil the lumbermen of Maine, is one 
we greatly like : 

' Where are mossy carpets better 
Than the Persian weaves, 
And than Eastern perfumes sweeter 

Seem the fallen leaves ; 
And a music wild and solemn 
From the pine-tree's height, 
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume 
On the winds of night.' 

But this is, after all, a greater verse, for in so few lines it 
impresses us with a moral truth and delights us with an 
exquisite fancy : 

* Cheerly on the axe of labor, 

Let the sunbeams dance, 
Belter than the flash of sabre ^ 

Or the gleam of lance ! 
Strike ! with every blow is given 

Freer sun and sky, 
And the long-hid earth to heaven 

Looks with wondering eye ! ' 

Among the poems which follow. On Receiving an 
Eagle's Quill from Lake Supeeior, is certainly one of 
our chief favorites. It is a succession of grand pictures — 
a sort of panoramic poem. Next, we find Memories — 
earlier written than the other we have mentioned, but 
unsurpassed by any in sweetness and quiet beauty. 

The Legend of St. Mark. — Ah, from no poem what- 
ever, have we received so much of strength, and peace, and 
heavenly consolation ! In the lone and weary night-time of 
the spirit, when thick darkness walls us round — in the 
hour of extremest agony, when the cry of the forsaken is 
breaking from our lips — in the strife with wrong, when the 
arm fails and the heart faints, because the oppressor is 
stroncr and the wrong-doer victorious for a season, what 



THE POETRY OF WHITTIER. 



129 



wondrous life and power, what renewals of the early faith, 
are in words like these : 

* Unheard no burdened heart's appeal 
Moans up to God's inclining ear ; 
Unheeded by his tender eye 

Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear. 

For still the Lord alone is God ! 

The pomp and power of tyrant man 
Are scattered at his lightest breath, 

Like chaff before the winnower's fan. 

Not always shall the slave uplift 

His heavy hands to Heaven in vain ; 
God's angel, like the good St. Mark, 

Comes shining down to break his chain. 

O, weary ones ! ye may not see 

Your helpers in their downward flight ; 

Nor hear the sound of silver wings 
Slow beating through the hush of night. 

But not the less gray Dothan shone 

With sun-bright watchers, bending low, 

That Fear's dim eye beheld alone 
The spear-heads of the Syrian foe. 

There are, who like the seer of old, 

Can see the helper God has sent, 
And how life's rugged mountain side 

Is white with many an angel tent ! 

They hear the heralds whom our Lord 

Send down his pathway to prepare ; 
And light from others hidden, shines 

On their high place of faith and prayer.' 

The Well of Loch Maree is a poem of like character — 
bringing strength and healing from the primal fountains of 
life to whosoever will drink. 

The tribute to his noble sister is one of the few glimpses 
which the poet has given us of his home-relations and 



130 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

affections — and, perhaps, for that reason especially charm- 
ing. But it is fine poetry, as well as gentle and touching 
sentiment. 

Autumn Thoughts, from ' Margaret Smith's Journal,' is 
a quaint, mournful, and most musical poem, which chimes 
on one's ears like distant vesper-bells. 

Elliott and Ichabod form a most striking contrast as 
they stand together in this volume. Both are elegiac poems, 
but that on Elliott is a terrific outburst of indignant grief, of 
fierce and fiery sorrow, which is more a defiance than a 
lament, and which peals out, and rings and rattles like a 
discharge of musketry over the grave of the Corn-Law 
Poet ; while the Ichabod is a low and solemn dirge, wailing 
for shrouded honor and perished faith, and the broken 
promise of a lost manhood. There are strange and awful 
notes in the requiem, which tell you that the death was 
suicidal. 

This wonderful poem, throughout the slow march of its 
subdued and solemn thought, teaches us the great truth, that 
genius, however lofty, unsurrounded and unsustained by a 
rich and beneficent life, is but a cold, and hard, and heaven- 
defying attribute — a tall pillar in a desert of sand, giving 
no shelter and casting little shade — a rallying point for 
tempests and a mark for the lightning. 

A bold and strong poem is that entitled The Men op 
Old. Of like character is The Peace Convention at 
Brussels. Then follows The Wish of To-Day, which 
once read must hymn on in the heart and brain ever after. 
And yet it is the simplest of poems — gentle and serious, 
sorrowful, yet earnest — the yearning of a weary heart for 
the peace which the world cannot give, the pleading of a 
contrite spirit — the consecration of a life. There seem 
tears upon the page, and low sighs breathe along the lines. 
We hear only the meek voice of resignation, unquestioning 
and unconditional. We see no longer the man struggling 
and resolving, but the submissive child, yielding his will 



THE POETRY OF WHITTIER. 331 

wholly and forever, and hiding his tearful face in the bosom 
of his Father. 

Evening in Burmah is a thoughtful and touching poem, 
suggested by a passage in one of the letters of Henry 
Martyn, the heroic young missionary. The opening stanza 
is truly grand : 

' A night of wonder ! piled afar 

With ebon feet and crests of snow, 

Like Himalaya's peaks, which bar 

The sunset and the sunset's star. 
From half the shadowed vale below, 

Volumed and vast the dense clouds lie, 

And over them and down the sky, 
Paled in the moon, the lightnings go.^ 

Seed Time and Harvest, brief and simple as it is, is one 
of those poems the writing of which is God's worship ; for 
it embodies that spirit of ' grateful service ' and cheerful 
faith which is most acceptable to Him. 

The last poem in the volume, some lines to a friend, On 
Receiving a Basket of Sea-mosses, is one of great beauty 
and suggestive thought. It is musical, and light in form, 
graceful and fanciful, yet through this, as through the stronger 
and graver poem preceding, flows the reverent, religious soul 
of the poet — that soul which is never so shadowed by the 
mysteries of life, or so roughened by its tempests, that it may 
not reflect heaven, and bear its eternal truths like stars upon 
its bosom. 

And now, if our readers will indulge us in a few more 
brief comments, we will leave this volume to their own con- 
sideration. They will find it, for a collection of miscellaneous 
poems, a singularly continuous and compact volume. Yet 
it is not genius violently projected in one only direction — 
there are various channels, but one ocean to his thoughts. 
Here are changes and varieties and phases of feeling, but a 
certain conscientious earnestness pervades and permeates 
the entire work. There is in it little of the poetry of fancy, 



132 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

none of passion, except it be moral passion, and in no instance 
is strength or purpose sacrificed to the mere love of the 
beautiful. Indeed, beauty seems rather to find expression 
incidentally, and unavoidably, than to be the aim and intention 
of the poet. Mr. Whittier has a hearty detestation of all 
cant and sentimentalism, and his poetry is refreshingly free 
from the mist and mysticism of the transcendental school, 
and the sublime guess-work of metaphysics. We are mis- 
taken if he ever makes extensive explorations into the spiritual 
world : he is no seer of visions, or dreamer of dreams, and 
his prophecies are given more as interpretations of the will of 
heaven, and clear expositions of the immutable laws of God, 
than as new and special revelations. Nor does he pass into 
and search through the human soul, with the lamp of his lumi- 
nous thought, but rather stands before it, and calls on its pow- 
ers and aspirations to come forth, ' as one having authority.' 
It may be that in his firm grasp on the real, our poet too 
often suffers to escape him the ethereal and fleeting forms of 
the ideal. In his verse the intellect is always felt, in strong 
vigorous strokes — the heart beats through it — it has blood 
and bone and muscle, but the divine and wondrous mysteries 
of the spirit find in it more unfrequent and imperfect expres- 
sion. It leads us into a garden, green and pleasant with the 
foliage and flowers and fruits of nature, and bright with a 
clear morning sunlight, rather than gives us torch-light 
glimpses of spiritual abysses, of caverns hung with strange 
gems, half in deepest night and half intolerable brightness. 
It is not poetry for the few — the learned and refined alone ; 
nor are we called by it as by ancient song to recline on the 
mount of the gods, and partake their delicate and intoxicating 
food. On a holier mount, and following a diviner example, 
stands the Christian poet, the poet of the people, and breaks 
the bread of the poor, and feeds the famishing multitude. 



THE DARKENED CASEMENT. 



CHAPTER I 



What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower. 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 

Of pensive thought and aspect pale. 

Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo flower? — Tennyson. 

Frederic Preston was the eldest son of a respectable 
merchant, in one of the most important seaport towns of 
New England. He was a young man of fine personal 
appearance, a warm and honorable heart, and a spirit 
singularly brave and adventurous. From his boyhood his 
inclinations had led him to a sea-faring life, and at the age 
of twenty-six, when he is presented to the reader, he had 
already make several voyages to the East Indies, as super- 
cargo in the employ of the house in which his father was a 
partner. He was now at home for a year, awaiting the 
completion of a vessel, which was to trade with Canton, and 
which he was to command. 

Preston had, for all his love of change and adventure, a 
taste for literature — always taking a well selected library 
with him on his long voyages — was even, for one of his 
pursuits, remarkable for scholarly attainments ; yet, he 
sometimes wearied of books and study, and, as he had 
12 



134 ' GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

little taste for general society, often found the time drag 
heavily in his shore-life. Thus it was that he one day 
cheerfully accejfted the invitation of his mother to accom- 
pany her to a school examination, in which his sister was to 
take a part. 

Our young gentleman was shown a seat in front, near the 
platform on which were arranged the ' patient pupils ' — 
' beauties, every shade of brown and fair.' 

He gazed about rather listlessly for a while, but at length 
his attention became fixed on a young lady who stood at the 
black-board, proving with great elegance and precision a 
difficult proposition in Euclid. He was observing the ad- 
mirable taste of her dress, the delicacy and willowy grace 
of her figure, when suddenly, while raising her arm in 
drawing a diagram, a small comb of shell dropped from her 
head, and a rich mass of hair fell over her shoulders. 

And such hair! it was wondrously luxuriant, not precisely 
curly, but rippling all through with small glossy waves, just 
ready to roll themselves into ringlets, and of that peculiar, 
indescribable color between a brown and a bright auburn. 

Preston, who felt that the possessor of such magnificent 
hair must be beautiful, waited impatiently for a sight at the 
face of the fair geometrician ; but, without turning her 
head, she stepped quietly back, took up the comb, quickly 
re-arranged her hair, and went on with her problem. It was 
not till this was finished, and she took her seat among the 
other pupils, that Preston had a full view of her face. He 
was more keenly disappointed than he would have acknow- 
ledged, when he saw only plainness, in place of the beauty 
he so confidently expected. Yet Dora Allen was by no 
means disagreeably plain ; her features were regular and 
her complexion extremely fair. She was only thin, wan, 
and somewhat spiritless in appearance. Her face was 
' sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ' — with thought 
her young eye seemed shadowed, her brow burdened. But 
there was a sweet and lovable spirit looking out from the 



THE DARKENED CASEMENT. 135 

depth of those dreamy eyes, and hovering about those quiet 
and almost colorless lips, which told the observer that her 
rare intellectual attainments had not stood in the way of her 
simple affections, to hinder their generous development. 

Frederic Preston liked Dora Allen's face somewhat better 
as he regarded it more closely, and when, at the close of the 
exercises, this young lady was called forward to receive the 
highest honors of the institution — when she advanced 
timidly, and bowed modestly, to be crowned with a wreath 
of rose-buds and lilies of the valley, while a sudden flush 
kindled in her cheek, flowed into her quivering lips, and 
illuminated her whole countenance, she grew absolutely 
beautiful in his eyes. 

Our hero was not sorry to learn that Miss Allen was the 
most intimate friend of his sister Anna, from whom he soon 
ascertained that she was an orphan, within a few years past, 
adopted by an uncle, a clergyman of the place — that she 
was about eighteen — of an amiable, frank, and noble dis- 
position, yet chiefly distinguished for her fine intellectual 
endowments and studious habits. 

I will not dwell on what my shrewd reader already 
anticipates — the love and marriage of Frederic Preston and 
Dora Allen. I will not dwell on the sad parting scene, 
when, within six months from Hhe happiest day of his life,' 
Captain Preston set sail for Canton, his brave spirit strangely 
cast down, the once gay light of his eyes quenched in tears, 
and with a long tress of rich auburn hair lying close against 
his heart. 

On account of some business arrangements which he 
was to make at Canton, he must be absent somewhat more 
than two years. He desired greatly to take his young wife 
with him, but feared, from knowing her delicate organiza- 
tion, that she could not endure the voyage. He left her in a 
pretty cottage-home, which he himself had fitted up for her, 
in sight of the harbor. 

Dora had living with her a widowed elder sister, whose 



136 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

society and assistance were much comfort to her, in her 
otherwise most lonely lot. 

Among the many letters which Captain Preston received 
from his loving and constant wife during his absence, there 
was one which he read with peculiar joy — with tears of 
grateful emotion. For this was not alone from the bride of 
his bosom, but from the mother of his child. Thus wrote 
Dora : 

' Our boy is four weeks old to-day, and my heart is 
already gladdened by his striking resemblance to you, 
dearest. He has your fine olive complexion, your large 
black eyes, and dark, curling hair. I call him Frederic, and 
have great joy in often repeating the beloved name.' 

It was early on an April morning that the merchantman 

' Bay State ' came into harbor. Scarcely waiting 

for daylight. Captain Preston took his way homeward. He 
found only Mrs. Mason, his sister-in-law, up ; but received 
from her happy greeting the assurance that all was well. 
With his heart on his lips, he softly stole up to Dora's 
favorite room, a pleasant chamber which looked out on the 
sea. He entered and reached her bedside unheard. She 
was yet sleeping, and Frederic observed that her hair had 
escaped from her pretty muslin cap, and was floating over 
her neck and bosom — then looking closer, he saw peering 
through it two mischievous black eyes — a pair of bright, 
parted lips — a rosy, chubby, dimpled little face — yes, 
caught his first view of his infant boy through a veil of the 
mother's beautiful hair. Then, with a light laugh, he bent 
down, clasped them both, calling their names, and in a 
moment seemed to hold all heaven in his arms. 



THE DARKENED CASEMENT. 137 



CHAPTER II. 

' I see her now — I kneel — I shriek — 
I clasp her vesture — but she fades, still fades ; 
And she is gone ; sweet human love is gone ! 
'Tis only when they spring to Heaven that angels 
Reveal themselves to you.' — Browning. 

From that time the voyages of Captain Preston were not 
so long as formerly, and he often spent many months, some- 
times a year or two, with his family. He frequently spoke 
of resigning his sea-faring life altogether, but was ever 
concluding that he was not yet in a situation to render the 
step a prudent one for his business interests. Finally, when 
he had been about fifteen years married, he set out on what 
he intended and promised his family should be his last 
voyage. He was at this time the father of three children ; 
the son, of whom we have spoken, a healthful, high-spirited 
boy ; and two daughters, Pauline and Louise — the first 
greatly resembling her father, the second very like the 
mother. 

Captain Preston was pained to leave his gentle wife look- 
ing paler and more thin than usual, and to observe, for she 
said nothing of it, that she was troubled with a slight cough. 
Yet he was of a most hopeful spirit, and even as he heard 
her low voice, and saw her faint smile, so much sadder than 
tears, he trusted that the coming summer would bring her 
health and more cheerful spirits. 

Mrs. Preston had usually a remarkable control over her 
painful emotions, and was peculiarly calm in all seasons of 
trial ; but at this parting she clung long and closely about 
her husband's neck — it seemed that she could not let him 
go. She buried her face in his bosom, and wept and sobbed 
in irrepressible anguish. 

At last, unwinding her fond arms, he resigned her, half- 
fainting, to the care of her sister, hastily embraced his 
12* 



138 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

children, and rushed from the house. He heard his name 
called in a wild, pleading voice, yet he dared not look back, 
but ran down the long garden-walk, and paused not till he 
had reached the road. He lifted his eyes to that pleasant 
window looking out on the sea, and there stood Dora, 
weeping and waving her slender white hand. He drew his 
cap over his eyes, turned again, and hastened down to the 
harbor. 

Duripg this last absence, Captain Preston received but one 
letter from his wife — but this was very long — a sort of 
journal, kept through the spring and summer succeeding his 
departure. In all this, though Dora wrote most pleasantly of 
home affairs, and very particularly of the children, she made 
no mention of the state of her own health, and this he 
knew not whether to regard as matter of assurance or 
apprehension. 

At length he was on his homeward voyage — was fast 
approaching his native shores. Never had he looked for- 
ward to reaching port with such eager, boyish impatience — 
never had his weary heart so longed for the rest and joy of 
home. 

But a severe storm came up, drove them off their course, 
and kept them beating about, so that for some days they 
made no headway. One night — it was a Sabbath night — 
Captain Preston completely exhausted, flung his cloak around 
him, and threw himself down on the cabin-floor for a little 
rest, for he could not lie in his berth. It was full midnight 
— his eyes closed heavily at once — he was fast falling into 
sleep, when he thought he heard his name called very softly, 
but in a tone which pierced to the deeps of his heart. He 
looked up, half raising hiself, and Dora loas before him! 
Yes, his own Dora, it seemed, with her own familiar face, 
still sweet and loving in its looks, though it seemed strangely 
glorified by the shining forth of a soft, inward light. Again 
she spoke his name, drew nearer, and bent down, as though 
to kiss his forehead. He did not feel the pressure of her lips, 



TUE DARKENED CASEMENT. 130 

but he looked into the eyes above him — her own dear eyes, 
and read there a mournful, unspeakable tenderness — a divine 
intensity, an eternity of love. He reached out his arms and 
called her name aloud ; but she glided, faint smiling, from 
his fond embrace — the blessed vision faded, and he was 
alone — alone in the dim cabin of a storm-rocked vessel, 
with the the tempest shrieking through the cordage, with the 
black heights of a midnight heaven above, and the blacker 
depths of a boiling sea below. 

Fredrick Preston did not sleep that night. In spite of all 
the efforts of his reason, his heart was racked with anxiety, 
or oppressed with a mortal heaviness. 

In the course of the following day the storm abated, and 
they afterwards crowded all sail for land ; yet it was a week 

ere they cast anchor in harbor. It was ten o'clock at 

night, and Captain Preston was immediately rowed to shore. 
Without waiting to speak to an}' one, he hurried up the road 
towards his cottage. As he drew near the bend in the road, 
by the clump of pines, he said to himself that if all were well 
at home, there would surely be a light shining from that win- 
dow of Dora's chamber looking out on the sea. But as he 
came in full view, he paused, and dared not look up, while 
the thick, high beating of his heart seemed almost to suffocate 
him. At last, chiding himself for this womanish weakness, 
he raised his eyes — and all was dark ! 

He hardly knew how after this he made his way up the 
garden walk, to the cottage, nor how, when finding it all 
closed, he still had strength to go on to his father's house, 
where he was received with many tears, by his parents, his 
sisters, and his children. The deep mourning dress of the 
whole sad group told of itself the story of his desolation. 
For some time, he neither spoke nor wept, but supported by 
his father, and leaning his head on his mother's breast, he 
swayed back and forth, while his deep, incessant groans shook 
his strong frame, and burdened all the air about him. Finally, 
in a scarce audible voice, he asked : 



140 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

'When did she go, mother?' 

* Last Sunday, near midnight, myson.' 

* Thank God, it was she, then! I saw her last! She 
came to me — her blessed angel came to bid me farewell. 
Oh, that divine love which could not die whh thee, Dora, 
Dora!' 

Then with a light over his face, which was almost a smile, 
he turned to his poor children, gathered them to his embrace, 
and wept with them. 

Mrs. Preston, who, as we have said, had ever been fragile 
and delicate, had at last died of a rapid decline. She had 
been confined to her room but a few weeks, and to her bed 
scarcely a day. She passed away with great tranquillity of 
spirit, though suffering much physical pain. Her children 
were with her at the last, and her patient serenity, and holy 
resignation, seemed to repress the passionate outbursts of 
their childish grief till all was over. 

It was not until some time had passed that Captain Preston 
felt himself able to open a large package placed in his hands 
by his mother, and which Dora had left for him — sealed up 
and directed with her own hand, the very day before she 
died. 

At length, seeking his own now desolate home, and shut- 
ting himself up in that dear familiar chamber, with the 
pleasant window looking out on the sea — there where he 
had seen her last — where she had breathed out her pure 
spirit — where her form had lain in death — there he lifted 
his heart to God for strength, kissed the seal and broke it. 
Before him lay a rich mass of dark auburn hair — Dora's 
beautiful hair! With a low cry, half joy, half pain, he 
caught it, pressed it to his lips and heart, and bedewed it 
with his abundant tears. Suddenly he observed that those 
long, bright tresses were wound about a letter — a letter ad- 
dressed to him in Dora's own familiar hand. He sank into 
a seat, unfolded the precious missive, and read — what will 
be given in the chapter following. 



TlIK DARKENED CASEMENT. 141 



CHAPTER III. 

'Earth on my soul is strong — too strong — 

Too precious is its chain, 
All woven of thy love, dear friend, 

Yet vain — though mighty — vain ! 
A little while between our hearts 

The shadowy gulf must lie, 
Yet have we for their communing 

Still, still eternity.' Hkmans. 

THE LETTER. 

' Frederic, my dearest — pride of my heart — love of my 
youth — my husband ! A sweet, yet most mournful task is 
mine, to write to you words which you may not read until 
my voice is hushed in the grave — till the heart that prompts 
is cold and pulseless — till the hand that traces is mouldering 
into dust. Yes, 1 am called from you — from our children 

— and you are not near to comfort me with your love in this 
dark season. But I must not add to your sorrow by thus 
weakly indulging my own. Though it may not be mine to 
feel your tender hand wiping the death-dew from my brow 

— though I may not pant out my soul on your dear breast, 
nor feel your strong, unfailing love sustaining me as I go — 
yet I shall not be all forsaken, nor grope my way in utter 
darkness ; but, leaning on the arm of our Redeemer, descend 
into "the valley of the shadow of death." 

' And now, dearest, I would speak to you of our children, 
our children, of whose real characters it has happened that 
you know comparatively little. I would tell you of my hopes 
and wishes concerning them — would speak with all the 
mournful earnestness of a dying mother, knowing that you 
can well understand the mighty care at my heart. 

' There is Frederic, our first-born, our bright-eyed, open- 
browed boy, almost all we could desire in a son. I resign 
him into your hands with much joy, pride, and hope. Even 
were my life to be spared, my work in his education were 



142 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

now nearly clone. I have had much happiness in remarking 
his talent, his enthusiasm, his fine physical organization, his 
vigorous health, his gay, elastic spirits — and far more in 
being able to believe him perfectly honest and truthful in 
character. Oh, my husband, can we not see in him the germ 
of a noble life, the possible of a glorious destiny ? 

' Yet, Frederic has some faults, clear even to my sight. I 
think him too ambitious of mere greatness, of distinction as 
an end^ rather than as the means of attaining some higher 
good. Teach him, dear husband, that such ambition is but 
a cold intellectual selfishness, or a fever thirst of the soul ; 
a blind and headlong passion that miserably defeats itself in 
the end. Teach him that the immortal spirit should here 
seek honor and wealth only as means and aids in fulfilling the 
purest and holiest, and therefore the highest purposes of our 
being : to do good — simple good — to leave beneficent " foot- 
prints on the sands of time" — to plant the heaven-flower, 
happiness, in some of life's desolate places — to speak true 
words, which shall be hallowed in human hearts — strong 
words, which shall be translated into action, in human lives. 
And oh ! teach him what I have ever earnestly sought to 
inspire — a hearty devotion to the right — a fervent love of 
liberty — a humble reverence for humanity. Teach him to 
yield his ready worship to God's truth, wherever he may 
meet it — followed by the multitude strewing palm-branches, 
or forsaken, denied, and crucifiWti.. Teach him to honor his 
own nature by a brave and upright life, and to stand for 
justice and freedom against the world. 

' I have seen with joy that Frederic has an utter aversion 
to the society of fops, spendthrifts, and skeptics. I believe 
that his moral principles are assured, his religious faith clear. 
Yet I fear that he is sometimes too impressible, too passive 
and yielding. His will needs strengthening, not subduing. 
Teach him to be watchful of his independence, to guard 
jealously his manliness. I know that I need not charge you 
to infuse into his mind a true patriotic spirit, free from cant 



THE DARKENED CASEMENT. 143 

and bravado — to counsel him against poor party feuds and 
narrow political prejudices. God grant that you may live to 
see our son, if not one of the world's great men, one whose 
pure life shall radiate good and happiness — whose strong 
and symmetrical character shall be a lesson of moral great- 
ness, a type of true manhood. 

' Our daughter Pauline is a happy and healthful girl, with 
a good, though by no means a great intellect. She has a 
dangerous dower in her rare beauty, and I pray you, dear 
Frederic, teach her not to glory in that perishing gift. She 
is not, I fear, utterly free from vanity, and she is sometimes 
arrogant and wilful. I have even seen her show a conscious- 
ness of her personal advantages toward her less favored 
sister. You will seek to check this imperiousness, to subdue 
this will — but not with severity, for, with all, Pauline is 
warm-hearted and generous. You know that she is tall for 
her age, and is fast putting away childish things. It will not 
be long now before as a young lady she will enter society. 
I surely need not charge you to be ever near her — to watch 
well lest a poor passion for dress and a love of admiration 
invade and take possession of her mind, lowering her to the 
heartless level of fashionable life ; to teach her to despise 
flatterers and fops — to shrink from the ostentatious, the 
sensLial, the profane, the scoffing and unbelieving. I feel 
assured that you will imbue her spirit with your own rever- 
ence for honest worth, aii^p^'our own noble enthusiasm for 
truth and the right — an enthusiasm never lovelier than when 
it lights the eye and glows on the lips of a lovely woman. 

' For my daughter Louise, our youngest, I have most 
anxiety, for she seems to have inherited my own physical 
delicacy, and has moreover an intense affectionateness and 
a morbid sensibility, which together are a misfortune. Dear 
husband, deal gently with this poor little girl of mine, for 
to you I will confess that at this hour she lies nearest my 
heart. Her whole nature seems to overflow with love for 
all about her, but the sweet waters are ever being embit- 



144 GREENWOOD I.EAVES. 

tered by the feeling that she is not herself an object of 
pride, scarcely of affection, to us. She is very plain, you 
know — yet, look at her, she is not ugly — her plainness is 
that of languor and ill health. Poor Louise is seldom well, 
though she never complains, except mutely, through her 
pallor and weakness. She also inherits from me an absorb- 
ing passion for reading and study, and perhaps you will 
think it strange in me when I call upon you, earnestly 
entreat you, to thwart and overcome this, if possible — not 
forcibly, nor suddenly, but by substituting other pleasures 
and pursuits — thus turning the current of her thoughts. 

' Though I do not remember to have ever been veiy 
strong, yet I do not think that I had at the first any disease 
in my constitution. Yet what was the course pursued in 
my training ? It was unfortunately discovered that I was a 
genius^ and so 1 was early put to study ; my young brain 
stimulated into unhealthy action, the warm blood driven 
from my cheek and lip, the childish light quenched in my 
eye, by a thoughtful and sedentary life. I wasted long 
bright mornings over books, when I should have been riding 
over the hills, or frolicing with the waves — rambling 
through the healthful pine woods, or fishing from the rocks, 
inhaling the invigorating ocean breezes. And sweet even- 
ings, instead of strolling abroad in the summer moonlight, 
I sat within doors, alone, wrapt in deep, vague reveries; 
and on winter nights I read and wrote, or pored over Euclid, 
or Virgil, in my close, dull chamber, instead of joining the 
laughing, chatting circle below, mingling in the dance and 
merry game. 

' Yet, it was not alone my passion for study which pre- 
vented me from taking that vigorous exercise, and indulging 
in those out-door amusements so absolutely necessary for 
both physical and mental health, but ideas of propriety and 
feminine delicacy, carefully inculcated and wrought into 
my character. I have since seen their folly, but too late. 
Habit and old associations were too strong for the new 
principles. 



THE DARKENED CASEMENT. 145 

' Ah, had my early training been different — had I been 
suffered to remain a child, a simple, natural child, through 
the- appointed season of childhood; had my girlhood been 
more free and careless, less proper, and studious, and poetic, 
I might now have been in my happiest season, the prime 
of a rich and useful life. But as it is, now, when my hus- 
band is at last returning home for his life-rest ; when my 
son is soon to take his first step into the world ; when my 
daughters need me most, at thirty-jive my course is already 
run ! Oh, Frederic, see that our little pale-faced Louise 
does not pursue her mother's mistaken course — does not 
re-live her mother's imperfect existence. Take her out 
into the fields, on to the beach ; teach her to ride, to row, 
to clamber, to fear neither sunshine nor rain — let fresh air 
in upon her life, get her young heart in love with nature, 
and all will be well with the child, I doubt not. 

' Your own dear mother has promised to take home our 
children when I am gone, and have charge of them, with 
your consent, for some years to come. The education of 
our daughters you should direct, for you alone know my 
plans and wishes. As to their marriage, that seems so far 
in the future that you will scarcely expect me to speak on 
the subject. I can only say, dearest, teach our children, in 
the coming years, never to be content with a union which 
promises less of love, harmony, and trust, than have made 
the blessedness of ours.' 

* I wrote the foregoing, dear Frederic, more than two 
weeks ago ; and now I must say farewell to you, for my 
hours are indeed few. I think I may not see another morn- 
ing on earth. I have of late suffered much about midnight, 
from extreme difficulty of breathing, and something tells 
me that I shall not survive another such season. But I am 
not dismayed ; God is yet with me in His sustaining Spirit, 
and I fear no evil. 

' And now, my husband, before I go, let me thank and 
13 



146 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

bless you for all your tenderness and patience toward me, 
in the years gone by. And, oh! let me implore you not to 
sorrow too bitterly when I am dead. We have been very 
happy in one another's love, and in our children — our 
children still left to you. Can you not say, " Blessed be the 
name of the Lord ! " 

' I inclose with this my hair, just severed from my head. 
I remember to have often heard you say that you might 
never have loved me but for this happy attraction — my 
one beauty. I desired my sister to cut it for you, and she 
tried to do so, but the scissors fell from her hand, and she 
went out, sobbing bitterly. Then I looked around with a 
troubled expression, I suppose, on our Frederic. He under- 
stood it, came at once to my side, and calmly, though with 
some tears, cut from the head of his dying mother this sad 
legac}^ for his poor absent father. Is he not a noble boy ? 

' I will not say to you. Farewell forever^ for I know your 
living faith in God, who will bring us home, where there 
shall be " no more pain, nor sorrow, nor crying." And, 
Frederic, if it be permitted, I will see you once more, even 
here. To me it seems that my love would find you, wher- 
ever you might be in the wide universe of God, and that 
my freed spirit would seek you first — over the deep, 
through night and tempest, cleaving its way to your side. 
But as Heaven willeth, it shall be ! 

'And now, farewell! best and dearest, farewell! My 
beloved — my beloved ! Oh, that I could compress into 
human words the divine measure of the love which glows 
and yearns in my heart at this hour ! That love the frost of 
death cannot chill, the night of the grave cannot quench. It 
is bound up with the immortal life of my soul — it shall live 
for thee in the heavens, and be thy eternal possession there. 

' May God comfort thee in thy loneliness, my love, my 
husband. 

' Again, again farewell ! Now, indeed, the bitterness of 
death is past. And yet, once more^ farewell ! 

' Thy Dora.' 



DORA'S CHILDREN. 



A SEQUEL TO ' THE DARKENED CASEMENT. 



FREDERIC PRESTON. 

Those who have read ' The Darkened Casement ' will 
remember the dying mother's sketch of her son — in which 
she represented him as a noble, generous lad, but with the 
not often co-existing faults of a will too yielding, too great 
susceptibility to outward influences, and an ambition for 
worldly distinction too restless and absorbing. To the 
strengthening of the manly will and the moral principles 
of his son, and to the chastening and directing of his ambi- 
tion, Captain Preston, keeping ever in his constant heart 
the last injunctions of his wife, most conscientiously devoted 
himself. And great joy must it have been for him to mark, 
day by day, that fresh, young, plastic nature rounding into 
grace and beauty, and growing more strong and firm under 
his wise and gentle influence. 

Captain Preston early resolved not to expose his son to 
the many temptations and dangerous associations of college 
life, but, being desirous that he should receive a complete 
classical and mathematical education, placed him under the 
tuition of a distant relative of his own — a retired clergy- 
man, and one of the most eminent scholars in New Eng- 
land. 



148 fJREENWOOD LEAVES. 

So, in a simple, little household, in a quiet inland village, 
Frederic Preston spent full four years, devoting himself 
faithfully to study, varied only by occasional visits to his 
native city, some thirty miles distant. 

Captain Preston was often with his son, and when absent 
was in the habit of writing to him almost daily. It was his 
wish and advice that Frederic should strengthen his consti- 
tution, and confirm his fine health by vigorous exercises and 
all innocent, manly sports. He also counselled him not 
wholly to neglect social pleasures ; but Frederic was too 
ambitious and too studious in his habits to have much taste 
for general society. 

The family of Mr. Ellsworth, Frederic's tutor, consisted 
of himself, his wife, an exceedingly lovely woman, and 
their youngest daughter, Annie, a sweet girl of fifteen, 
when Frederic first came to her father's. Annie was one 
who was always spoken of by her friends as ' a dear, good 
child ; ' she was not very beautiful, or brilliant, but she pos- 
sessed a warm, unselfish, faithful heart, and an earnest, 
active, comprehensive mind. Like Frederic's mother, she 
had been from her early childhood passionately fond of 
reading and study; but, unlike Dora, she was blessed with 
great physical strength and firm health. She could pore 
over her books hour after hour, without banishing the bloom 
from her cheek, or the light from her eye, and she would 
rise from the most intense abstraction of study, to join in 
the usual sports of happy girlhood, or to assist her mother 
in the cares and labors of the household. She became at 
once Frederic's companion in his studies, and was but a 
little way behind him in many, while she equalled him in 
some. 

My reader will scarcely wonder, that as the months and 
years went by, the study which most deeply and pleasantly 
interested Frederic Preston was that of the rapidly unfold- 
ing character of his fair young friend ; for, in their close 
daily companionship, he came at last to know every trait, 



Dora's children. 149 

and power, and passion, and aspiration, almost as he knew 
those of his own nature. Often would the young student 
pause, lift his eyes from the book before him, and fix them 
on Annie's noble, kindling face, as she sat opposite to him, 
lost in her studies, and read in that sweet volume deeper 
lore and more beautiful truth than geometrical problems 
contained, or Greek characters expressed. And it was 
strange, that however absorbed Annie might be by her 
lesson at such times, she failed not to feel a sudden, sweet 
disturbance troubling her stilled heart, and jostling her 
thought from the point where she had fixed it ; and involun- 
tarily, with an inquiring smile, she would lift her eyes to 
his. Glance would meet glance, then be quickly, though 
scarce consciously, withdrawn. 

And thus it was that those two free, unwarped natures, 
drawn near in their actual lives, and yet nearer by the 
kindred of the spirit, like two fair young trees, growing up 
together, gradually and almost imperceptibly leaned towards 
one another, and their thoughts and aspirations mingled, 
like intertwining branches. 

Slowly and unconsciously ascended each heart into the 
upper realm, the divine relations of a great and holy affec- 
tion. So innocent, so tender and childlike was their love, 
even in the fullness of its beauty and power — so lightly 
and quietly lay upon each spirit those bonds formed link by 
link, by congenial pursuits, pleasant daily associations, and 
gentle nightly dreams, that both were unknov/ing of the 
depth and intensity of that love, of the strength and endur- 
ance of those bonds. 

At last Frederic became aware that he could never shut 
Annie out of his visions of the future — were they proud or 
sorrowful, of success or defeat, of poverty or splendor, she 
was ever at his side, a cheering, guiding, or consoling 
presence. And ever when his heart burned most for fame, 
and he listened most eagerly to the voice of a selfish, un- 
13* 



150 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

worthy ambition, he would feel the soft rebuke of her mild 
eyes, and blush, though none were near. 

When Frederic Preston left the village of W , to 

pursue the study of the law in his native city, he was not 
formally plighted to Annie ; he had not even given full 
expression by spoken or written words to the affection which 
lay upon his heart with the weight of an inestimable treas- 
ure. But what need was there of words, when every look 
towards her was a protestation — every tone a fervent 
prayer for love ? All this she understood, and rested with 
perfect faith and a measureless content in the assurance 
thus given her — the eloquent, though unspoken avowal of 
a love which she returned with all the strength and pure 
devotion of her nature. 

Frederic Preston pursued his legal studies with an emi- 
nent lawyer, who became to him a friend as well as a 
preceptor. Mr. Abbott soon perceived the fine ability, read 
aright the amiable and manly character of his young stu- 
dent, and bent himself to advance his interests. In the 
family circle of the Abbotts there was much of true refine- 
ment — here Frederic saw fashionable society in its most 
attractive form, and very soon felt himself entirely at home. 
He was, as we know, well read ; he possessed much native 
elegance and rare conversational talent ; nor was he want- 
ing in those lighter accomplishments which most grace a 
gentleman. 

At the urgent request of Mr. Abbott and his family, 
Frederic accompanied them to their pleasant summer resi- 
dence, on the seaside, some five miles from the city, where 
he continued to spend his office hours. 

Many were the visitors at that hospitable mansion, and 
endless the plans of pleasure ; it was a season of rare en- 
joyment to Frederic, and for several weeks his letters to 
Annie, which were long, frequent, and most confiding in 
their tone, were filled with lively descriptions of novel and 
pleasant scenes, and graphic sketches of character; but. 



Dora's children. 151 

finally, those letters came less often, and grew strangely- 
formal and constrained, or seemed careless and hurried. 

During the first week of his stay at the seashore, he 
heard much of the expected arrival of a sister of his pre- 
ceptor, Mrs. Ashton, who was about returning from Europe, 
whither she had, a year or two previous, accompanied an 
invalid husband, whom she had buried in Italy. She came 
at last, and Frederic, who had looked for a pale, thin, sor- 
rowful, middle-aged matron, was agreeably surprised to 
meet a young and beautiful woman — brilliant and con- 
versable in spite of her weeds. Mrs. Ashton was, in truth, 
a most superb and fascinating creature. She had all the 
graces and enchantments which rare beauty, fair talent, 
many accomplishments, a thorough knowledge of the world, 
and a most artistic and refined coquetry, could give her. 
In her marriage there had been scarce the pretence of love 
on either side. Her husband, an eminent politician and 
diplomatist, had outlived the season of impassioned feeling 
when he met her, and honored her with his distinguished 
alliance. Though absorbed in his narrow pursuits, drowned 
in politics, he was proud of his wife, cared for her happi- 
ness while he lived, and left her an immense fortune at his 
death. On her part, the wife had been outwardly faithful 
and duteous — had nursed him patiently through his long 
illness — shed some tears, and planted a rose-tree on his 
grave. There had been given no tender child-love to draw 
nearer those two hearts which had throbbed side by side for 
years, but between which there was in truth a cold and 
weary distance. 

Mrs. Ashton had consoled herself for the dead life of a 
loveless and childless marriage, with a leadership in society, 
by wielding a powerful though secret influence in the politi- 
cal world, and by her enthusiasm for music. She was an 
artistic singer, and played, upon the harp and piano very 
finely, though with more brilliancy than feeling. 

In short, Caroline Ashton had given to the world her life, 



152 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

her very soul, and the world had rewarded her by making 
her a large sharer in the most refined of its intellectual and 
sensual pleasures, and by the bestowal of its most intoxi- 
cating homage. She was in full possession of her rare 
gifts and acquirements — rich, free, and twenty-five — 
when she cast her beautiful fatal eyes upon Frederic 
Preston. 

He was then little more than twenty-one, but looked 
some years older, as his figure was tall, firmly built, and 
fully developed, while his countenance wore a remarkable 
mature expression. He was handsome, even beautiful, his 
face being one that failed not to attract admiring attention 
every where. With Mrs. Ashton's artistic tastes, it was 
little wonder that our friend found peculiar favor in her 
eyes from the first. So much was her fancy captivated, 
through her sense of beauty, and the little romance that 
yet lingered in her coldly brilliant character, like the few 
small Alpine flowers that grow among the glaciers — so 
quick was her recognition of his fine talent and of the wild 
ambition, so kindred to her own, which sometimes blazed 
in his eye, and broke from his lips in impatient, almost 
reckless, expression — that her new and pleasant impres- 
sions and vague speculations at last formed themselves into 
a strange, but well-defined plan. She would bestow her 
hand and her great fortune upon Frederic Preston — would 
mould his yet plastic character, develop his genius, con- 
centrate his enthusiasm, aid him by her knowledge of the 
world, and urge him on to success and fame by the tireless 
force of her own passionate will. She could not be ashamed 
of him as he was — she would be unspeakably proud of 
him when she had made him all she desired. 

And Frederic — how stood he affected towards her.? For. 
awhile he was reserved in his intercourse with her — in 
truth, was somewhat jealous of a woman who, with all her 
tact, could not at all times conceal a certain consciousness 
of superiority. But soon this failed to pique his pride, and 



Dora's children. 153 

he listened to her soft, even-toned voice, till it became 
indeed ' the voice of the charmer.' 

Mrs. Ashton ever spoke with careless indifference, in a 
tone of superior wisdom, half pitying, half contemptuous, 
of a simple life of the affections ; but dwelt with kindling 
enthusiasm on a life of intellectual power, and refined 
sensual pleasures, as one worthy of the gods. 

She spoke of love, as life's morning dream, exceeding 
sweet and beautiful, yet which must pass away, like the 
early mist ; but of the pursuit of fame and power, as the 
earnest, worthy, glorious business of the day. She believed 
in passion — she had herself called forth too often that 
lava-tide of the heart, to doubt its existence ; but of a pure, 
exalting, unselfish, unworldly affection, that deep, myste- 
rious sympathy of the spirit, that close, indissoluble union 
of life with life, that perfect blending of two natures, one 
for evermore, she had no real belief or conception. 

And Frederic listened to those deadly sophistries which 
came sliding softly through the most perfect lips in the 
world — listened and received them into his warm, impres- 
sible heart, which seemed to harden about them, and hold 
them, as a rock holds crystals. And gradually, the little 
fairy isle of love, and hope, and happiness, once so green 
and bright in the sea of his future, sunk doAvn and disap- 
peared, and the chill waters of a worldly and selfish phi- 
losophy passed over it. 

Yet it need hardly be said that Frederic Preston did not 
love Mrs. Ashton. We know that he loved Annie Ells- 
worth. He gave to his new mistress a half intellectual, 
half passionate worship ; there were no close confidences, 
no careless familiarity, no companionship, no sweet sense 
of nearness, between the two. Frederic felt Mrs. Ash- 
ton's presence in the quickened action of his heart — she 
always roused, but never soothed him. The casual touch 
of her hand sent shocks through all his frame — he first 
sought, then shrank from the gaze of her eyes, with he 



154 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

knew not what of apprehension and dismay. Ah, there 
was strange power in those eyes — power even in the slow 
fall and upward sweep of the long, dark lashes. 

Yet though Frederic Preston did not love Mrs. Ashton, 
he sometimes imagined that he did ; nor could he he blind 
to her partiality for himself; and well he saw, with his 
sharpened vision, that with the wealth and influence of such 
a wife, the realization of the wildest dreams of his ambition 
was possible. Finally — the truth must be told — he began 
to congratulate himself on the fact that there existed no 
positive, formal engagement between himself and Annie, 
and strove to shut out from his heart the now sad conviction 
that the poor girl's very life was bound up in his. 

It was a sultry night, in the last of August. The air was 
of that peculiar heaviness which forebodes a violent thunder- 
storm, and the Abbotts were seated on the vine-shaded 
piazza, looking at the masses of black clouds which lowered 
over the ocean, and watching the lightnings which played 
incessantly along the horizon, now and then dropping down 
and quenching themselves in the sea. 

Mrs. Ashton and Frederic Preston were alone in the 
drawing-room. Mrs. Ashton sat at the piano, now running 
her fair hands over the keys, in a wild, fitful manner, and 
singing snatches of songs — now conversing with her com- 
panion in tones more than usually low and silvery. The 
two had been riding in the woods along the seashore that 
afternoon, and a graceful wild vine, which Frederic had 
gathered, now rested on the classic brow of the dark-eyed 
widow. Never, in all the time he had known her, had she 
seemed so perilously beautiful to Frederic. There was a 
soft, dreamy, half-sad expression in her face, which he had 
never before remarked — a tender languor a thousand times 
more irresistible than her usual queenly air and triumphant 
smile. Alas, at that moment, how utterly forgotten was 
the simple village maiden, his boyhood's love ; how utterly 
blotted from his heaven seemed that fair star, so late his 



Dora's children. 155 

guiding light ! Annie's last letter, breathing in every line a 
generous trust, untroubled by coldness or neglect, he had 
left for weeks unanswered. It came to him just as he was 
about setting forth for a ride with Mrs. Ashton, and he flung 
it into his desk, where it actually remained for a day or two 
unread — quite forgotten. Yet there was a time when he 
eagerly welcomed a letter in that familiar hand, and read it 
with kindling eyes, pausing only to press it to his lips, ere 
he broke the seal. Now, as he looked on that splendid 
woman at his side, with the proud conviction that she might 
be his, a passionate impulse prompted him to make that 
avowal which had again and again trembled on his lips, but 
which had ever been repressed by a strange, unknown 
power. He bowed over her, sought her eyes, and would 
have spoken, but that at the moment she began singing a 
verse of the ' Vesper Hymn to the Virgin.' It was the last 
hymn which he remembered to have heard his mother sing, 
and now it struck back the mad words of a false love from 
his lips, and left him silent, from the sense of an angelic 
rebuke. But presently it seemed that the dead mother's 
hand was withdrawn from his lips, that her warning presence 
passed from his side ; for, as Mrs. Ashton ceased warbling 
one of Barry Cornwall's delicious love-songs, Frederic knelt 
at her side, grasped her hand, and looking into her eyes, 
murmured — Caroline!' but not a word more could he 
utter. This was the first time he had ever presumed to call 
her by her Christian name. Yet, leaving her hand in his, 
she smiled graciously, saying, 'Well, Frederic!'' 

And he was lost ? No, no ; salvation came in the form 
of James, the Irish servant, who entered, saying : ' I beg 
your pardon, sir, but here is a letther just brought by the 
post, marked ' Deliver immadiateli/,'^ and I thought maybe 
you'd like to read it at once.' 

Frederic, struck by a strange dread, caught the letter, 
tore it open on the spot, and read these hurried lines : 

' Dear Frederic : My daughter's life is despaired of. 



156 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

She is very low with the typhus fever. If you would see 
her alive, come to us at once. Charles Ellsworth.' 

Oh, human heart ! thou fathomless mystery ! thou inex- 
plicable contradiction ! In one brief moment, from the 
lowest deepfe of Frederic's nature welled up the old love, 
in a swift, resistless tide of anguish, remorse, and irrepres- 
sible tenderness, uprooting and sweeping away the new 
love, as it were a slight flower — dashing in pieces its proud 
dreams, as the rising waves scatter in fragments frail struc- 
tures built by children for pastime on the shore, when the 
tide is low. 

With a hurried adieu, and a partial explanation to his 
friends, Frederic sprang on to his horse, and set out for 

W at full speed. He had not ridden far before the 

storm which had been so long lowering in the east came down 
with great fury. The night was utterly dark, and the half- 
distracted rider could only see his way by flashes of light- 
ning. His horse was a fine one, and for full twenty miles 
bore up bravely ; but finally, on crossing a little bridge, 
from which the swollen stream had carried away a plank, 
he fell through, and so injured one shoulder, that his master 
saw at once that he could proceed no further. So, hastily 
fastening the faithful creature by the roadside, there being 
no house or barn near, Frederic resolutely pursued his way 
on foot. A superhuman strength seemed given him ; he 
scarcely felt fatigue or heeded the tempest, as for five long 
miles he toiled up and dashed down the hills, bespattered 
with mud, drenched with the rain, and half blinded by the 
lightning ! There was a fear at his heart colder than the 
chill of the rain, and more dismaying than the lightning. 
Yet he struggled on, hoping only to reach Annie's death- 
bed, to weep out his sorrow and repentance at her feet, to 
receive one word, one look of forgiveness, ere she died. 
And how the past came back! the dear, lost season of 
innocent joys, simple desires, and purest love. He remem- 



Dora's children. 157 

bered how, only a year ago, Annie had patiently and ten- 
derly nursed him through a fever*like the one which had 
now prostrated her. Thus, torn with fear and self-reproach, 
he at last drew near the pleasant familiar house of the 
Ellsworths. He crossed the lawn, he staggered against the 
door, and, after a brief struggle for calmness, knocked. 
The housekeeper, whom he well knew, opened to him. 
He entered, but for his soul he could not utter a word. 

' She is living, sir,' said the woman, who understood his 
silence ; ' but she has been quite unconscious for several 
hours, and we have no more any hope that she will long 
continue with us.' 

' For God's sake lead me to her ! ' cried Frederic, and in 
a moment more he stood in Annie's room — ^.that room once 
so light and cheerful, but now the shadowed and silent 
chamber of the dying. All her dearest friends were there — 
father, mother, sister and brother, weeping and waiting for 
the coming of the dread angel ; but Frederic saw only that 
one beloved, lying pale and insensible — her blue eyes 
closed, her brown hair floating over the pillow, her faded 
lips apart, and the breath struggling up from her breast 
faintly, and yet more faintly. One white hand lay across 
her bosom, and Frederic, kneeling at her bedside, bowed 
his face upon this, and covered it with his tears and his 
kisses. None sought to reprove or check the outburst of 
his grief, as he cried — 

' Oh, Annie ! do not leave me ! It is I — Frederic. Look 
on me once more, my love, once more ! ' 

And she did look on him ! He felt that white hand 
tremble against his lips, then those blue eyes slowly un- 
closed, and fixed upon his upturned face a glance of recog- 
nition, of joy, of love. She spoke not, but slowly lifted 
her hand and laid it among the damp curls of his hair, ten- 
derly smoothing them back from his forehead. Then 
Frederic laid his head down by hers, kissed her cheek, and 
14 



158 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

wept convulsively. Mr. Ellsworth would have removed 
him, but Annie whispered — 

' Let him lie here, father ! 1 shall receive life again from 
his lips ; do not take him away, for he has saved me ! ' 

And he had saved her ! From that hour the fever was 
broken, the disease departed, and dear Annie recovered. 
Yet for many days her spirit seemed to stand trembling on 
the confines of the vale of shadows, ere even that mightiest 
love could draw her back into the light and warmth of life. 
It was only by filling her heart with the tones of the best 
beloved voice, that she could be made to forget the celestial 
music which floated to her ear, when so long she lay deaf 
to all sounds of earth, and only the mute entreaty of those 
sorrowful eyes could make her unheedful of fair angel 
forms still beckoning to her across the river of death. 

After a month of the most careful and tender nursing, 
Annie was able to leave her room, supported by Frederic, 
almost borne in his arms. He wheeled her arm-chair 
toward the fire, arranged the pillows about her, and lifting 
her little feet, placed them on a soft cushion. He read to 
her in a low voice, from her favorite books, talked to her in 
a yet lower voice, sweeter things than she had ever found 
in books. He brought her the brightest flowers and the 
greenest mosses from the autumn woods ; and when, one 
mild day, early in November, she was able to take a little 
stroll with him through the village, leaning fondly and 
dependingly on his arm, as his own betrothed wife, he was 
more happy, and proud, and grateful to God, than he had 
language to express. 

Frederic had faithfully confided to Annie the story of his 
passion, or rather infatuation, for Caroline Ashton ; and 
she, in the wisdom of her own generous nature, regarded it 
as but a brief usurpation, by the intellect and the senses, of 
the rightful rule of the heart — a heart which, though for a 
time a sad truant, weak and erring, had never entirely for- 
saken its love and her. 



159 



On Christmas Eve there was a simple, quiet wedding 
party assembled in Mr. Ellsworth's pleasant parlor. First, 
of course, were the bride and bridegroom, Annie and Fred- 
eric, looking as nobody had ever seen them look before — 
handsomer, happier, and more interesting eveiy way. The 
bridesmaids were Pauline Preston, grown a tall and elegant 
girl, and ' little Louise,' now no longer ' pale-faced ' and 
plain. The groomsmen were, Mr. Ernest St. John, a young 
gentleman who looked as poetical as his name would lead 
one to hope ; being a slight, delicate person, with a fair 
Greek face, expressive, if not of genius, of a noble spiritu- 
ality far more rare and beautiful — and Mr. Walter Edwards, 
of New York, a distant relative of the Prestons, a remark- 
ably grave-looking but handsome young man of nineteen, 
who was just about sailing for Germany, where he was to 
complete his education. 

Mr. Ellsworth was the ofRciating clergyman, but Captain 
Preston had the first kiss of the bride, and all were merry 
and sad at once. There was no woman's smile, at least, 
that shone not through tears. 

One year from that night, there was a grand wedding at 
the Abbotts', when Mrs. Ashton became again the proud 
wife of a distinguished statesman. The happy pair set out 
at once for Washington ; but the splendor of that wedding 
did not soon pass from the memory of some of the guests. 
Such high-bred elegance was there in the air of the bride- 
groom, despite his years and portly figure ! and such dia- 
monds as the bride wore ! 

Somewhat more than eight years had passed. Frederic 
Preston, who from the time of his marriage had been 
established in his native town, living with his father and 
sisters, in Dora's own dear cottage-home, had met with fair 
success in his profession, had been happy, most happy, in 
his marriage, and was the proud father of three lovely 
children. He was not yet, however, in any position of 



160 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

power and honor in the State — not from the want of politi- 
cal abilities and predilections, but because he had chosen 
to stand forth rather prominently for certain principles more 
honorable to him than popular with the multitude. Frederic 
possessed genuine eloquence, conciliating manners, and a 
noble character; all of which gave him great influence 
over the minds of the people, speaking even, though he 
most frequently was, against the tide of popular prejudice. 
So general was the appreciation of the force of Mr. 
Preston's character, and of his peculiar intellectual power, 
that many were the temptations which came to him in the 
shape of secret overtures from parties and political leaders, 
of place and preferment, if he would abandon his present 
* lofty, but impracticable purposes,' and sacrifice his favorite 
' abstractions.' To all such propositions Frederic had 
returned but one reply — an unqualified and indignant 
rejection. But it happened, at length, there arose an unfor- 
tunate difference between himself and some of his asso- 
ciates in the cause to which he had devoted all his energies 
and sacrificed so many worldly interests ; he felt himself 
wronged, distrusted, and ungratefully forsaken, by those to 
whom he had long been bound by the close fellowship of a 
holy, common cause, the brotherhood of a great truth ; and, 
wounded and embittered, he withdrew himself from them 
for a time. That misunderstanding had seemed but a slight 
thing in the beginning ; but the breach had been widened 
by thoughtless or designing persons, till it seemed almost 
impassable. It was then, when so peculiarly open to 
temptation, that Frederic received a confidential letter, 
which might have staggered him in his best hours. This 
was from Mr. Abbott, his former preceptor in the law, now 
an eminent poUtical leader, high in office. It was written 
in a kind, a genuinely friendly tone ; it was a flattering 
tribute to Frederic's talent, and an earnest remonstrance 
against the use to which he was putting it — an appeal, 
almost an entreaty, to turn, while it was yet time, from the 



161 

course which he was pursuing with more generosity than 
wisdom, and for the sake of his family and friends to enter 
upon the enviable career so plainly open before him, and to 
seize the good fortune which awaited him. It contained 
most ingenious arguments, to prove that he could even 
ultimately advance those very truths now so dear to him, 
by a temporary abandonment of their advocacy. In con- 
clusion, the writer earnestly, though delicately, pressed 
upon his young friend the acceptance of an honorable and 
lucrative appointment, and prophecied for him much success 
and fame, if only he would be faithful to the principles 
and interests of his new party. 

More than once Frederic Preston's face flushed as he 
read this letter. Was it the blush of honest shame, or the 
rekindling of the old baleful fire ? Ah ! he hardly knew 
himself which it bespoke. 

At length he sprang to his feet, and strode rapidly up 
and down his room, the quivering of his lip and the swell- 
ing of the veins in his forehead revealing the struggle 
which was passing in his breast. 

He next resolved to seek Annie, though he felt that he 
should scarce dare to let her see how sorely he was tempted. 
He found his wife in the room which had once been his 
mother's — that 'pleasant chamber which looked out upon 
the sea.' She was sitting with her baby asleep upon her 
lap, and was busy in reading a manuscript which looked 
somewhat worn and yellow ; and as Frederic drew near, he 
saw that she was weeping. But, dashing away her tears, 
and smiling on her husband, she said — 

' I have been reading this last letter of your mother to 
your father. He has let me take it again. I cannot read 
it too often. Do you know, dearest, that I think what 
relates to you the truest and most beautiful of all ? ' 

'Read it to me, love,' said Frederic, striving to banish 
the half-sad, half-morose look he had worn of late — 
seating himself beside his wife, and winding his arm about 
14* 



162 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

her waist. And Annie read, in a soft, reverential voice, 
those touching injunctions of the dying mother contained in 
Dora's simple story. As she had been moved by one of 
Love's own divine intuitions, she read with peculiar impres- 
siveness such passages as these : 

' Oh ! teach him what I have ever earnestly sought to 
inspire — a hearty devotion to the right — a fervent love of 
liberty — a humble reverence for humanity. Teach him to 
yield his ready worship to God's truth, wherever he may 
meet it — followed by the multitude strewing palm-branches, 
or forsaken, denied, and crucified. Teach him to honor his 
own nature by a brave and upright life, and to stand for 
justice and freedom against the world. 

' Teach him to be watchful of his independence, to guard 
jealously his manliness. I know that I need not charge you 
to infuse into his mind a true patriotic spirit, free from cant 
and bravado — to counsel him against poor party feuds and 
narrow political prejudices. God grant that you may live 
to see our son, if not one of the world's great men, one 
whose pure life shall radiate good and happiness — whose 
strong and symmetrical character shall be a lesson of moral 
greatness, a type of true manhood.' 

As Annie read, she felt Frederic's head sinking on to her 
shoulder, and when she finished, his fast tears were stealing 
down her neck. Flinging aside the manuscript, she fokled 
her arms about him, and wept with him, but said no word. 
Soon Frederic rose up with a clear smile, kissed the tears 
from Annie's beautiful eyes, and returned to his library, 
where he penned a brief letter to his friend, thanking him 
for his kindness, but decidedly, though mildly, declining the 
flattering olfer which he had made. 

That night Frederic Preston made one of a small assem- 
bly, where a few brave, true hearts were gathered together 
in the cause of justice and freedom. There he struck 
hands again with those from whom he had been for a little 
time estranged — frankly told them wherein they had 



163 



wronged him, and as frankly confessed his own error in 
yielding to a proud and hasty resentment — pledged his 
faith once more to the Right, and renewed his early conse- 
cration to Freedom. 

Frederic Preston may never be rich, or great, as the 
world counts riches and recognizes greatness ; but priceless 
treasures of affection are his, with the reverence of true 
and honorable natures, and the poor and oppressed ' shall 
rise up and call him blessed.' 



PAULINE PRESTON. 

' How beautiful you are looking to-night, Pauline ! But 
then, you always look lovelier to me than any other woman. 
Ah ! sister, do you not joy in your beauty every time you 
look in the mirror ? ' 

' Why, no, my dear little flatterer. I have become accus- 
tomed to it. But, Louise, how is it that you are not yet 
dressed ? Why did you not tell me if you wished to come 
to the mirror ? ' 

'Oh, no matter! I can knot up my hair well enough, 
without looking in the glass. I forgot myself in watching 
you, looping up your curls, and arranging your wreath ; but 
I will make haste now, and not detain la reine du bal too 
long. Please fasten this bracelet. Thank you. Now run 
down, and tell papa that PU be ready in a moment.' 

It will be seen by the above conversational fragment, that 
Pauline Preston could hardly escape falling into the error 
which her mother had apprehended — that of a vain-glorying 
in her beauty. Nearly all who approached her came with 
looks of involuntary admiration, if not with words of flat- 
tery — while ever at her side was her enthusiastic young 
sister, with an absolute worship in her eyes and on her lips. 
Captain Preston did what he could to counteract the dan- 
gerous, though often well-meant adulation of others, and, it 



164 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

may be, preserved his daughter from becoming utterly 
selfish and heardess, by his kind, judicious counsels, and by 
keeping fresh in her memory her dying mother's words of 
warning. 

Pauline's beauty was indeed of » rare and striking type. 
With a fair and singularly radiant complexion, she had yet 
the pure, classic features, the large, dark, heavily-shaded 
eyes, and the shining black hair of a Roman girl. She was 
tall, with a well-rounded form, peculiarly lithe and graceful 
in its movements. 

Pauline could not be called highly intellectual, though 
she had a mind well cultured and rather practical in its 
character, with much readiness, tact, and taste. She was 
abundantly conscious of all her personal advantages, natural 
and acquired, but was rather proud than vain. She was 
ambitious, imperious, and often strangely wilful, yet was 
generous, impulsive, and brave — with wells of passionate 
feeling in her nature, deep, unseen, and by the world un- 
suspected. 

Ordinarily she bore herself toward her sister with an air 
of assured superiority, graciously accepting her homage ; 
but were Louise ill, or sad, the goddess straightway de- 
scended from her pedestal, to nurse and comfort the child, 
with all a mother's patient tenderness. 

Pauline had much talent and great enthusiasm for music. 
Gifted with a glorious, soaring voice, and a delicate ear, she 
made rapid progress in her favorite study, and, finally get- 
ting beyond her governess, was placed under the tuition of 
an accomplished master — Mr. Ernest St. John, the young 
gentleman before mentioned as one of the groomsmen at 
Frederic Preston's wedding. Mr. St. John was a true musi- 
cal genius — a noble interpreter of the divine mysteries of 
harmony. His music, though of high artistic excellence, 
spoke even more to the soul than to the ear. His playing 
exalted more than it astonished, and his sweet, though pow- 
erful voice, melted and subdued, as often as it thrilled and 



Doha's children. 165 

animated. I believe that every singer sings out of his or 
her own heart; and that they of the world, worldly, may 
sing brilliantly and purely, but must sing coldly. Their 
notes fall like hailstones, as hard, yet untreasurable ; while 
the music which flows out of a warm, beneficent heart, in 
rich and liquid tones, is like a generous summer rain, and 
every heart which hears is like a thirsty flower-cup, grate- 
fully receiving the plenteous shower, and taking from it 
renewals of life. 

Captain Preston did wisely in placing his daughter under 
the tuition of Mr. St. John. To a character of rare good- 
ness, of almost angelic purity, the young tutor united a clear, 
practical mind, manners gentle and persuasive, yet marked 
by a native dignity with which no one would presume to 
trifle. Of his genius and personal beauty Mr. St. John was 
equally unconscious. The first he named ' an enthusiasm ; ' 
and, with an artist's love for such manly beauty as belonged 
of old to the Greek athlete, he never dreamed that the word 
could be applied to aught in his pale face or slight frame. 
But to others, the graceful delicacy of his form, and the 
absence of the fuU-bloodedness of high health from his 
finely chiselled features, gave to him much of that peculiar 
purity and spirituality which never failed to impress those 
who approached him. And yet Ernest St. John was in no 
way effeminate — but rich in all the strength, and bravery, 
and honor of true manhood, though mingled with the ten- 
derness of woman, and the fresh-heartedness of the child. 

After escaping from the control of a strict and somewhat 
arbitrary governess, Pauline congratulated herself that under 
the new regime she might follow the bent of her will, and 
indulge her caprices to her heart's content. But she soon 
became aware that her tutor, young and handsome though 
he was, exerted over her a power more absolute than that 
which lies in words of command and an imperious will — 
the unconscious sovereignty of a high and noble mind, that 
seemed never to know a weak or an unworthy impulse, and 



166 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

the calming, subduing influence of a gentle and equable 
manner, never disturbed by small excitements, or darkened 
by moodiness. 

Something there was in his presence, which made Pauline 
ashamed of the thousand little caprices, the girlish affec- 
tations, the outbreaks of petulance and impatience, in which 
she had too often indulged. She began almost involuntarily 
to check herself in the expression of a worldly ambition 
which too early had found lodgment in her heart, in the 
utterance of a false or narrow sentiment, and in any betrayal 
of that pride and vanity which yet toward others were re- 
vealed in her haughty eye, the bearing of her head, her 
dress, her walk, and even in the light and careless tones of 
her voice. Yet toward his pupil did Mr. St. John never 
make use of a word of sarcasm, or stern rebuke. He met 
her little affectations with a still, peculiar smile, which never 
failed to send the blood to her very forehead ; but when she 
gave ever so light a voice to a sentiment unworthy the great 
heart of a 'true woman, he would fix his soft, brown eyes 
upon her face, with a half-wondering, half-sorrowful ex- 
pression, and on the instant she would wish the foolish 
words unsaid. 

What wonder that Pauline's character gradually grew 
into harmony with Ernest's more harmonious nature ? What 
wonder that the pure, womanly soul which he had thus 
attuned to diviner melodies than ever were drawn from 
human voice or cunning instrument, became something in- 
finitely dear and sacred to the young artist ? What wonder 
that the hearts of the two blended, with the blending of 
their voices ? 

Yet though the most beautiful relations of affection and 
confidence existed between the friends, they were not be- 
trothed, or acknowledged lovers. Though Ernest became at 
last aware that the affection he felt for his pupil was the one 
great love of his life, he was painfully doubtful of the 
strength of her regard for himself. He saw her beautiful, 



Dora's children. 167 

brilliant, and accomplished — he understood her pride and 
social ambition, and feared that the humble alliance, the 
quiet home, the tender love — the all he could offer — would 
fail to satisfy her. So it was, that he let year after year go 
by, and gave no language to the love which overflowed his 
soul, and swelled in every pulsation of his heart. And at 
length, a new, sad motive was given him for silence ! His 
health, which had never been robust, grew more and more 
delicate, until, after a winter and spring of almost entire 
confinement, his physician decided that he must spend the 
next winter in Cuba, if he would preserve his life. 

Pauline was twenty that summer — in high beauty and 
more in demand as a belle than ever before ; yet she left 
her invalid tutor with sincere reluctance, to join some 
fashionable friends for a season at Newport. Her father at 
the same time took her sister — who was more poetic in her 
tastes, and timidly shrank from crowds — on a tour to 
Niagara and the Lakes. 

The season was an uncommonly brilliant one, and New- 
port was thronged with fashionables. There was the youth 
just from college, with a high collar and a feeble moustache, 
striving to hide his real verdancy under the air of a dashing 
man of the world, verging on the roue ; and the miss, newly 
emancipated from school, rapidly becoming ashamed of, and 
as rapidly losing, her greatest charms — simplicity and 
ready blushes. There were eager hunters on the scent of 
heiresses, and solicitous mammas, with daughters exceed- 
ingly marriageable, in all points, save a slight moneyed 
deficiency. There was the belle of many seasons, whose 
beauty seemed somewhat overdone by long toasting, but 
who still supported all the honors of bellehood with exem- 
plary spirit, and gallantly hung out her faded colors — with 
the superannuated beau, still making a successful stand 
against grayness or baldness of head, and submitting with 
the best possible grace to the rotundity of figure and 
rubicundity of visage, coming as the penalty of pleasant 



168 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

little sins in the way of eating and drinking — still youthful 
in air, and exquisite in dress, in spite of sovne frosts of time 
which had fallen upon his hopes and his whiskers — still 
'jolly under the creditable circumstances' of deafness and 
gout. 

There were the usual number of invalids, but less, by far, 
than Pauline expected to see. She soon learned that few 
indeed resort to the more fashionable bathing and watering 
places for rest, or the restoration of health. 

A few evenings after her arrival, as Pauline was riding 
on the beach in an open barouche, with her friend and 
chaperone, they were passed and repassed by a gentleman 
in a phaeton, driving a pair of superb grays. There was a 
foreign look about the turnout, and the air of the gentleman 
himself was unmistakably trans-Atlantic. His figure and 
dress were simply elegant, but his face was most peculiar in 
its character. It was both attractive and repulsive. There 
was a degree of purity in his clear, olive complexion, and 
the delicate, well-preserved outline of his handsome features, 
indicative of refinement ; but the half-sad, half-sinister ex- 
pression of his intense black eyes, the passionate curve of 
his thin nostril, a certain dissatisfied droop of his mouth, 
with lips not full, yet soft in their lines, bespoke a volup- 
tuary of the rarest and most dangerous type. 

He appeared struck by Pauline's beauty when he first 
approached, and cast furtive glances at her as he passed, but 
did not otFend by an open gaze ; while on her part, Pauline 
felt her eyes involuntarily following him till he was out of 
sight, and she returned to her hotel, feeling that there had 
been some strange fatality in that casual meeting. 

On the following evening, Mr. Niel, the husband of her 
chaperone, entered the drawing-room with the stranger, 
whom he begged leave to present to his wife and Miss 
Preston. From his appearance, Pauline had imagined him 
a French Marquis, an Italian Count, or a Spanish Don, and 
was slightly disappointed to find him only plain Mr. Elliot, 



169 



an English gentleman. Yet it may be that, from this dis- 
covery, she felt more at ease in his presence ; certain it is 
that, ere the evening was over, she found herself chatting 
with him quite pleasantly and familiarly — the vague feeling 
of apprehension which had troubled her at first sight only 
coming to her momentarily, when she felt most the strange 
power of his mocking and melancholy eyes, of his sweet, 
but insincere voice, and the subtle triumph of his smile. 

Mr. Elliot, now about thirty-eight, was a gentleman of 
large fortune and high connections. His father was of pure 
English descent, but he had been born of an Italian mother, 
and seemed to have inherited alike her dark beauty and 
her passionate southern nature. Gifted with extraordinary 
talent, his family had looked to see him attain to eminence 
and power in the political world ; but toward the life of the 
statesman he had little leaning ; and after a year or two in 
Parliament, he utterly and forever abjured politics. Too 
indolent to be ambitious, with a native passion for art, in all 
its forms, and, it must be said, with an insolent rebellion 
against the moralities of English society, he, while yet 
young, virtually expatriated himself, and gave himself up to 
all the pleasures and freedom of Italian life. 

It was*said that there was a time when Luigi Elliot might 
have been saved from a career so unworthy ; that a first 
and pure love had been repaid by inconstancy and dishonor ; 
and that the bitterness and madness of his disappointment 
had driven him into a life from which his better nature 
revolted. However that might be, he seemed the insatiable 
enemy of woman, and terribly did he revenge himself upon 
many for the falsehood of one. Yet he was not all bad — 
hopelessly lost and depraved : there were rifts of brightness 
breaking through the clouds of evil. He was once known 
to spare a poor girl who loved him wildly, and whom he 
loved after his way — to spare her when she was wholly in 
his power, because he suddenly saw in her a look like 
his one sister — a sister from whom his errors had long 



170 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

estranged him, and from whom he had last parted in anger. 
Yet it seemed that the good within him often but gave 
greater power to the evil, adding the charm of sadness and 
tenderness to the force of passion. Ah ! there is a terrible 
fascination in a nature so passionate and strong, sweeping 
on like a swift, turbid torrent of evil, yet bearing on its 
breast tender sprays and torn flowers and fragments of 
noble structures, the evidences of original beauty and early 
aspirations after truth. Is there under God's heavens a 
sight more fearful than such a wasted and wasting life pre- 
sents ? 

And it was under the influence of this accomplished man 
of the world, this refined roue, this unbeliever in love, this 
betrayer of women, that Pauline Preston had now fallen ! 

Mr. Elliot having been forced to visit England, to take 
possession of an immense fortune, on the death of his 
father, had, while there, suddenly taken the fancy to see 
the New World ; a plan which promised, at least, to dissi- 
pate for a time the ennui which oppressed him. He brought 
excellent letters, he created a decided sensation wherever 
he appeared ; beauties blushed, mammas looked gracious, 
and papas propitious, for the auriole of his wealth made 
such marvellous brightness, that few saw the shadow of his 
libertinism. But no glance, no smile of beauty, had power 
to disturb, by a single ripple, the dead calm of his life's 
now passionless sea, until he met Pauline Preston. At 
once he recognised something powerful and kindred in the 
quick blood which fluctuated in her glowing face, the pride 
of her lips, and the imperious will which rode triumphant 
in her glances. But most of all, there was in her singing a 
wild, exulting energy, a glorious, uprising spirit, which 
swept over him such a flow of emotion as he had never 
known when listening to the most artistic performances of 
of an Italian cantatrice, all passion and no soul. 

After winning, by skilful management, the confidence of 
her friends, Elliot was often at Pauline's side, paying her 



DORxV's CHILDREN. 171 

the most assiduous, yet delicate and deferential homage. 
As for her, though she continued to doubt him in his ab- 
sence, she now always felt her warning fears vanish before 
the charm of his presence, before the eloquence of his 
glance, the persuasion of his smile, and that most dangerous 
flattery ever addressed to woman, the confidential, self- 
reproachful tone in which he would sometimes speak of his 
past life — hinting at sorrows and errors, with the recital of 
which he would not pain her gentle heart. 

It may not be that Mr. Elliot approached Pauline Preston 
with any purer sentiments or more honorable designs than 
those with which he had been long wont to approach 
women ; but certain it is, that he soon acknowledged the 
rare dignity, pride, and purity of her character, and if he 
had had any base purposes at the first, finally abandoned 
them. But Pauline he found it impossible to abandon. All 
the love of which a nature so warped and wasted as his was 
capable, drew him toward the beautiful American. At last, 
a strange thought flashed across his mind. Why might he 
not make her his wife ? It was time he married. He cared 
little for rank ; he had abundant wealth, and she could not 
fail to grace any station to which he might raise her. Then, 
marriage would be a novelty in his life, would rescue him 
from absolute ennui for a season. And so it happened, 
that the night preceding her departure for home, Pauline 
saw deposited at her feet, in due form, the heart and fortune 
of her elegant admirer. She felt that this proposal was 
made too proudly and confidently, yet for her soul she 
could not decline it haughtily, or decline it at all, with that 
man's eyes upon her. He bound her by some strong, mys- 
terious spell ; she did not love him, yet his love seemed to 
come to her with the force of a fatality, a destiny. She 
felt his passion wrapping her about, like a sheet of flame. 
It touched her veins, it seemed to lighten on her brain, but 
her inmost heart was as ice. She felt that those things in 
her nature with which he had somewhat arrogantly claimed 



172 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

kindred, were but the wild waves on the now troubled sur- 
face of her being, answering faindy to the all-storm of the 
all-surface of his. But she knew that in the depths there 
was stillness, and she knew that there was a soul of perfect 
calm, and deep as all life, to which that truly answered. 
She knew tiiat there was one, and one only, by whose side 
she had sat hour after hour, in the voiceless communion of 
the spirit ; when the lips were stillest, because the heart 
spoke most ; when the -ear of the soul alone might hear 
' deep calling unto deep.' 

All this Pauline felt, yet she had not courage to say to 
Mr, Elliot — 'I am proud of your regard, but I cannot be 
your wife. You attract, you sway me by a power I do not 
understand, yet I do not love you.' She could only stam- 
mer out, that she must see her father before she could 
decide ; and, considering the battle as won, Mr. Elliot had 
called her his ' dearest Pauline,' had passionately kissed 
her hand, and folded it to his heart, ere she roused herself 
sufficiently to bid him good night, leave the balcony on 
which they were standing, and retire to her room. 

On the evening of her arrival at home, a number of Pau- 
line's friends came in, to welcome her back, and she soon 
found that .she had been preceded by rumors of her brilliant 
conquest. Some gaily offered congratulations, which were 
as gaily parried by Pauline. Ernest alone made not the 
slightest reference to the matter, and she scarcely knew 
whether to be pleased or annoyed by his silence. In the 
course of the morning she summoned courage to lay her 
affair before her father, who, as she had expected, left the im- 
portant decision entirely in her own hands, only counselling 
her to know well her own heart, and to follow its strongest 
and highest impulses. 

In the afternoon Pauline walked over to the pleasant old 
homestead of the St. Johns, to practise some new music 
with her tutor. There was much intimacy between the 
families, as Ernest's widowed mother had been the dearest 



173 



friend of Dora Preston, and had ever felt toward her chil- 
dren a peculiar tenderness. Pauline found Ernest looking 
paler and sadder than usual, but he welcomed her with the 
same sweet smile his face had always worn for her. Ah ! 
that sunny smile, so full of faith and love ! how often had 
it shone down the night of that dark influence which so 
lately had fallen about her. The two strove to chat together 
gaily, as of old, but with ill success. Pauline seated herself 
at the piano, and stormed through a brilliant overture ; then 
sung, half playfully, half defiantly, a mocking song of 
Moore's. After a moment's silence, she looked up into her 
tutor's troubled face, and, with one of her wild impulses, 
said, ' Ernest, have you heard the great news of my ap- 
proaching marriage ? ' 

A faint flush passed over Ernest's face, but he answered 
quietly, ' Yes, I have heard such a rumor,' then added — 

' Will it please you to play this piece ? ' 

' No, it will not please me ! ' said Pauline hastily, rising 
from the piano, and taking up her hat ; but in a moment 
she added, more softly — 

' I do not feel like playing any longer — I am not in a 
harmonious mood to-day. Adieu;' and she hurried down 
the garden walk, without even looking back, as she had 
often done, from the gate. Oh, that she had looked back ! 
so that she might have seen the tears in Ernest's sorrowful 
eyes — so that he might have seen the tears on her angry 
cheek. But no matter. 

She hastened home — ran to her room, and flinging her- 
self into a favorite arm-chair which had once been her 
mother's, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud, 
murmuring passionately and bitterly — ' He does not love 
me ! he never loved me ! He spoke as calmly of my 
marriage as he could speak of my taking a stroll this still 
evening. He is too proud in his goodness to love 7ne, so 
weak, so full of faults. Oh, God ! can he not see that in 
his love lies my safety, my redemption ! Oh mother, 
16* 



17A GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

mother, did you ever sit in this chair with such a heavy 
heart — with such a despairing, distracted heart as mine?' 

The utterance of that dear and sacred name seemed to 
bring peace to the poor child, for she grew cahner, and at 
last ceased weeping. But, as she raised her head, her eye 
fell upon something on the table before her, little calculated 
to deepen her calmness — a letter in the not unfamiliar 
hand of Luigi Elliot. With a sudden trembling, too like a 
shudder passing over her frame, and yet with a gleam of 
pride in her eye, she broke the seal and read, what the 
writer called ' only a few simple words,' which her abrupt 
departure on the night of their interview had prevented his 
speaking to her. 

An artist in the use of his native English, Elliot seemed 
here indebted to it for forms alone — to have in some subtle 
manner interfused with the words the soft and passionate 
spirit of his mother''s sweet and melodious Italian — the 
love-language of the world. It was an eloquent, an im- 
passioned, and a strong outpouring of love — a love full of 
the glow, the almost fierce intensity, the wildness and the 
sensuousness of the South. 

So like his presence was that letter, that Pauline grew 
pale and powerless over it ; she saw the fatal sweetness of 
his smile, looked down into the unfathomable darkness of 
his eyes, as she read. 

Ah, what pictures he painted of the life to which he 
would lead her ! ' Go with me,' he said, ' to England, and 
see the glorious old Fatherland — see the great world in all 
its splendor — your peerless beauty was born to illumine 
palaces and courts ! Go with me to gay, delightful France 
— your perfect organization was meant to take in joy 
through all the senses ! Go with me to Switzerland, and 
behold Nature in all her terrible beauty, her unapproachable 
grandeur ! Go with me to Italy — and see art in its divinest 
creations, life in its richness, fullness, and freedom 1' 

Late that night, alone in her chamber, sat Pauline, pale, 



DORAS CHILDREN. I/O 

but quite calm, penning a brief letter of acceptance to Luigi 
Elliot. On the table by her lay the beginnings of two or 
three letters bearing his name — which, dissatisfied with, 
she had flung aside. The one now before her she some- 
what hastily finished, enveloped, directed, and sealed. This 
done, she sat for some moments in a deep reverie, then 
opening her desk, she took from thence a small package of 
papers, tied with a rose-colored ribbon. These were 
Ernest's letters and notes, with some few little poems of 
his — every line he had ever written to her. She read them 
all, as well as her tears would let her — then taking the 
first, a pretty birth-day tribute, she held it in the blaze of 
her taper till it was burned to ashes. Ah, she could do no 
more, but gathering the others to her heart, she cried — 

'I cannot burn them to-night — my tears would put out 
the flame ! I must keep them a little while longer — it will 
not be wrong to keep them till I have parted from him for 
the last time. Then I will burn them all, and my love with 
them — and wear the ashes on my heart always.' 

Murmuring such wild words as these, Pauline flung her- 
self down on her couch, and, exhausted by the fierce strife 
of contending emotions, sobbed herself to sleep. 

And Pauline dreamed. 

It seemed to her that her bridal day had come, and that 
she stood in her mother's charaber, before the mirror, array- 
ing herself for the altar. A dress of shining satin and 
exquisite lace fell about her in rich folds — costly gifts were 
scattered around, and a casket of magnificent jewels was 
open before her. She dreamed that as she was trying to 
clasp a bracelet on her arm, her mother glided in, looking 
just as she remembered her in the last sickness — so sweet 
and pale — drew near, and with her own white fingers 
fastened the pearls. Pauline dreamed that she felt no terror 
nor surprise, but was glad and grateful for her mother's 
presence. At length all was finished, save the bridal wreath 
and veil — but, as Pauline was lifting the circlet of delicate 



176 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

orange-blossoms, to place it on her brow, her mother said, 
solemnly, 'Stay, my daughter — / have brought you a 
wreath, befitting far better a marriage such as yours ! ' 

The bride looked at the wreath that her mother held, and 
saw that it icas of cypress ! 

With a low cry, Pauline awoke. The taper she had left 
burning on her desk had gone out, and the moonlight was 
flooding the chamber. A fresh night wind was sweeping 
the curtains to and fro, and swaying the vines against the 
casement — all else was still. Yet Pauline knew that her 
mother had been there, and brought that dream ! 

She rose — went to her desk, and finding by the moon- 
light the letter which she had written to Luigi Elliot, she 
tore it into small fragments and scattered it on the floor. 
She then laid herself quietly down, crossed her hands on 
her breast, thanked God, and slept. 

In the morning, Pauline Preston wrote to Mr. Elliot a 
letter longer than the one of the night previous, but of far 
different import. It was one that saved his pride while it 
disappointed his hope — that exalted his passionate love 
into an almost adoring reverence. Not all in vain were his 
sutTering, and Pauline's fiery trial, if his unchastened, 
worldly heart had thus been taught one sentiment of genuine 
respect for woman. 

Pauline remained quietly at home that day — feeling 
more pain from the decision she had been called upon to 
make than she allowed to appear. She had indeed been cru- 
elly tempted at every weak point in her character, and she 
was now suffering from the spiritual lassitude which often 
follows struggles like these. As sho was sitting alone in 
her room, at twilight, another letter was brought in. She 
took it mechanically, but her dull eye brightened and her 
cold cheek flushed as she saw that it was from Ernest, 
Hastily lighting a lamp, and flinging herself into her 
mother's chair, she read : 

'Dearest Pauline: — I can no longer keep silence — 



17 



I must tell you, though so abruptly, and in words whose 
meaning you cannot mistake, that which my eyes should 
long since have betrayed. / love you^ Pauline — love you, 
not alone with the love of a tutor and friend — not with a 
brother's love, but with all the devotion and tenderness of 
my heart — with the mightiest passion of my soul. 

' I cannot look back and behold when this love began — 
it seems to me to have had no beginning, as it can have no 
end. From early boyhood to manhood, it has kept even 
pace with my spirit — has " grown with my growth, and 
strengthened with my strength " — ay, more than this, has 
become stronger, and dearer, and deeper than my life. 

' I should have spoken long since, but from the fear that 
my love might stand in the way of your better fortune — 
and oh, Pauline, so purely and unselfishly have I loved you 
ever, that I could have made my heart a stepping-stone for 
you to happiness and honor. But since I have heard those 
rumors of your engagement, I have been conscious that 
pride was the strongest motive of my silence, and that I can 
crush. This love which I have so striven to shut away 
from you, and hide in my deepest^ heart, is yours, your 
heritage and just desert, and I have no right to with- 
hold it from you, even though you may lightly value the 
possession. 

' If I have spoken too late, vainly spoken, my heart may 
break, but it will bless you still, for in loving you, it has 
been lifted nearer Heaven and filled with deeper blessings 
than the world can give. I go from you soon — whether to 
be laid beneath a stranger soil, or to return with renewed 
health, God alone knows. 

' And now, farewell. If we may meet no more, as we 
have met, do not, I pray you, quite forget our past, with 
its pleasant companionship, its mirth, and its music. And 
oh, Pauline, in the pride and happiness of another love, will 
you not let mine sometimes come to you as a still benedic- 
tion, or descend upon you in that perfect peace for which 
my soul besieges Heaven with ceaseless implorings ? 



178 GRRKNWOOD LEAVES. 

' May God himself minister with his abundant love to a 
nature so wide and strong in the grasp of its affections — to 
a heart so proud and high, and yet so tender, so childlike, 
so fearfully sensitive as yours. Ernest.' 

When Pauline had read and re-read the above letter, 
kissed it, and hid it near her heart, she flung a veil over her 
head, and with one of her true, blessed impulses, walked 
straight across the common, to the house of Mrs. St. John. 

The evening was warm, and she found the doors open. 
No one was in the parlor, and the lamps were not yet lit. 
She passed on into the little library, Ernest's own room, 
where stood his piano, where hung his few favorite pictures, 
and shone in the moonlight busts of the poets and small 
copies of rare works of art. Ernest himself was sitting by 
the window, alone, gazing dreamingly out into the clear, 
bright nigh,t. He did not hear Pauline's soft step as she 
glided to his side, where leaning against his chair, she 
looked down upon him. His delicate hands were clasped 
together, and Pauline saw in the moonlight tears on the 
long lashes of his sad, brown eyes. She laid her hand on 
his forehead so gently that he hardly started as he looked 
up — she bent and kissed his eyes, all tears as they were, 
and while he was silent with joy and wonderment, she 
said — 

' Thus, Ernest, I answer your letter ! I will go with you 
to Cuba, if you will take me — take this heart with all its 
waywardness, its faults, its follies, and oh, Ernest, with all 
its love ! ' 

She said no more, for a lover's first kiss of pure, unutter- 
able joy stayed her words — she said no more for many 
minutes, for her face was laid against the heart of Ernest, 
and her own tears were flowing fast. Ah, what deep 
thankfulness filled her soul — what repentance for all past 
errors — what a delicious sense of safety — what a rest 
was there of heart on heart — what a close, and perfect, 
and holy union of the spirit ! 



dora's children. 179 

At length, she raised her head and murmured — 

' You will not die, Ernest ? You surely will not die ? ' 

' How can I die, beloved, bound thus to life ! ' 

Pauline went with Ernest, her husband, to Cuba, that 
autumn. By the next June they returned — Ernest per- 
fectly restored to health ; and Pauline — ah, could you 
have seen her then, you would have said that the wide 
earth did not contain a happier or a prouder wife. 

One evening, soon after their return, they were together 
in Ernest's little library, the very air of which seemed 
sweet, and sacred with the associations of their love and 
betrothal. 

Pauline was seated at the piano — her husband was 
bending over her, and both were singing. As the last 
notes of one of the heart-searching songs of Burns died 
away, Pauline, looking up with a smile, said — 

' There was a time, Ernest, when I thought there was no 
music in the world like your voice; but I have heard 
sweeter, even from you.' 

' Ah, indeed ! where, and when ? ' 

'• Here, Ernest, when I first leaned my head against your 
breast, and listened to the full, fast beating of your heart.' 

' The sound was music to you, dearest, because it kept 
time to God's own highest melody — love.'' 



LOUISE PRESTON. 

Of all Dora's children, none changed so much in passing 
from childhood to maturity, as Louise. She was a pale, 
sad child, when her mother left her — plain, and quite 
uninteresting to a casual observer, except as a look of 
suffering and languor might excite a brief feeling of half- 
pitiful interest. Yet, though exceedingly delicate, the child 
had no positive disease in her constitution ; but she had 



180 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

unfortunate habits, almost as difficult to eradicate. Slender 
and weak-chested, she had not strength to sit erect at her 
writing or books, but would bend over them, hour after 
hour, utterly lost to all around her — for, with an intellect 
far beyond her years, study was her one absorbing passion. 

Captain Preston did not begin by lecturing his shy and 
pensive little girl, or abruptly prohibiting those pursuits 
which were her greatest joy in life. He kindly strove to 
make her needful labors lighter by studying and reading 
with her, yet often interrupted Pauline and herself, in the 
midst of a lesson or an exercise, by proposing a ride or a 
ramble. Pauline, full of bounding life, was tovjours prete, 
but Louise, at the first, set forth with visible though unex- 
pressed reluctance. Not that she had no love for Nature, 
but that she enjoyed it best quietly and alone. She liked to 
steal out, after a day of study, to the seashore, seat herself 
upon some craggy rock, and watch the moon rise from the 
water. The dark magnificence of the scene, the loneliness 
of the shore, the clouds and the lights of heaven, the slow 
upward march of the moon — and, more than all, the 
swelling and moaning of the sea, impressed her with 
wondrous power — intoxicated her, it might almost be said, 
with sublimity — so filled her soul, that she took no note of 
time, and when she found herself at home, she scarce knew 
how, she would creep to her bed, chilled and exhausted, 
wondering that she felt no better for her little stroll. She 
loved the woods also, but when there, cared only to lie on 
some mossy bank, and gaze upward, watching the sun- 
beams struggling through the thick leaves, the blithe 
squirrels leaping from branch to branch, and the gleaming 
flight of the birds — to let her soul float from her, and lose 
herself in sad, but delicious reveries. 

Gradually, and without apparent design, her father 
changed all this — made her ocean-visitings the times for 
active physical exercise — so filled her hands with shells 
and mosses, so tired her little human feet with clambering 



Dora's children. 181 

over rocks, that her soul forgot to overload itself with 
sublime thoughts. He changed her slow, solitary medita- 
tive strolls into pleasant, social rambles — often somewhat 
childish and idle, but never wholly objectless. There were 
always to be sought some flower or shrub, berries, nuts, 
ferns, wild grasses, or many-colored autumn leaves. 

Captain Preston had more difficulty in overcoming the 
natural timidity of Louise, and getting her heartily in love 
with such sports as riding and boating. But, finally, this 
good work was also accomplished — Louise became a 
graceful and fearless horsewoman, while at rowing she 
might have rivalled Ellen Douglas herself. 

Captain Preston was not alone the counsellor and guide, 
but the companion, the confidant, the dear, intimate friend 
of all his children ; yet we can scarce wonder that he felt a 
deep, peculiar tenderness for that ' poor little girl,' of whom 
her dying mother said, ' She lies nearest my heart,' or that 
he gave himself with tireless devotion to the work of her 
moral and physical training. And great was his reward ! 
sweet beyond expression his happiness, when, as the years 
went by, and the child grew into womanhood, he beheld 
the pale cheek flush, the dim eye brighten, the cold lips 
redden and grow full, and that slight and angular figure 
round into grace and symmetry. At nineteen, though still 
small, Louise was really beautiful in form — her chest being 
finely expanded, her neck and arms as plump as those of a 
Hebe, and the poise and carriage of her head being pecu- 
liarly spirited and graceful. 

The beauty of her face remained an open question, 
though no one denied to it rare loveliness of expression. 
Her features were not quite regular ; her nose was a thought 
too short, and her forehead a thought too low, perhaps ; her 
mouth drooped too sadly at the corners, and there was 
sometimes a half suspicious, half haughty curl of the upper 
lip, neither gracious nor becoming ; but her eyes and hair 
were unquestionably beautiful. Ah ! I never can forget 
16 



182 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

those large, deep, languid, violet eyes, so thickly shaded by 
dark, golden lashes. Her hair also was golden, far lighter than 
her mother's, but in texture and wavy abundance very like 
Dora's crowning glory. Louise, however, was quite uncon- 
scious of its exceeding beauty ; she never made much of it, 
and there was little need — it made enough of itself. It 
seemed that it might almost have folded itself about her 
small Grecian head, in rich masses and shining undulations, 
without the aid of comb or band, — and if it escaped its 
slight confinement, and came tumbling about her shoulders, 
you would beg her never to put it up again, it fell in such a 
bounteous shower of gold, such a cascade of bright curls. 
Think of hair of this rare hue, and large, dreamy, dark 
blue eyes ! What a bewitching combination ! 

But the idea of her plainness had so taken possession of 
the mind of Louise in her childhood, that now a young lady, 
though she knew herself in better health and spirits, she 
was no prettier in her own estimation, than of old. She 
compared her round, little figure, her blue eyes and fair 
hair, with the tall stately person, the splendid dark eyes and 
raven locks of her sister, and pronounced herself diminutive, 
insignificant, irredeemably plain. Ah ! little did she know 
Ihat to some hearts ' Mignonne,'' as her father called her, 
was a sweeter and a dearer presence than the brilliant belle. 
In spite of the perfect mould, the force and nobility of Pau- " 
line's face, that of Louise was capable of a yet higher 
beauty — the loveliness and the power of a heart of greater 
native deeps - — the sudden glow, the intense, ineflTable light 
of genius — which, pouring from her soul, would overflow 
her plain features till they seemed almost transfigured. 

Yet, though Louise was a sad unbeliever in her own at- 
tractiveness, and ever received with wonder and childish 
gratitude, the love of those nearest her, her own heart went 
out to all around in boundless tenderness ; she seemed to lie 
at the feet of her father, her brother, and her sister, with 
the soul of love and worship in her grpat eyes — to antici- 



Dora's children. 183 

pate and to share their joys and sorrows with an exquisite, 
tearful sympathy. 

Pauline, while young, never quite comprehended the deli- 
cate, poetical mind of her sister, with its romance, its fair 
dreams, and strange fancies, and the fine, ethereal genius 
which seemed floating about her as a spirit, rather than tak- 
ing form in any thing which she said or did, — making her 
so charmingly incomprehensible, that Pauline laughed at, 
wondered at, and idolized her. 

The father alone fully understood her, from having known 
and loved Dora — that sweet, frail rose, who seemed to 
have breathed the very soul of her sweetness into this last 
delicate bud. He understood the dreamy, retiring sensitive- 
ness of his daughter, her modest distrust of herself, and the 
sad unconscious jealousy, which too often weighed with a 
vague unhappiness on her heart. 

Louise knew that she was overshadowed by the striking 
beauty of her sister ; but at this she never repined, even in 
her most secret thought. She gloried in it rather, and would 
have said, — as well might some little clover-blossom com- 
plain of being shadowed by a rose-tree, hanging its rich 
blossoms above her, and raining about her sweet-scented 
leaves. 

But the effect of this overshadowing, and the result of her 
own extreme humility, was a timid shyness, an utter disin- 
clination for general society. This feeling was strengthened 
by the consciousness of possessing few elegant accomplish- 
ments. The neglect of a fine talent for music, and a true 
genius for painting and poetry, had been the penalty paid 
for her admirable physical training, her pleasurable, care- 
free life of busy idleness. She sketched a little, played less, 
danced passably, but excelled in nothing, unless it was in a 
peculiar style of singing, or rather of musical recitation, 
with a slight piano accompaniment, often improvised. It 
was truly a great pleasure to listen to her at the rare times 
when she could be prevailed upon to recite. One never 



184 GREENWOOD LEAVE?. 

heard from her any thing hackneyed or common-place ; — 
sometimes she gave quaint, delicious little songs, of which 
she alone knew the authorship, — but oftener she chose 
the wildest lays and sweetest ballads of the great masters of 
song, and her voice was as tender and mournful, as deep, 
strong, and passionate, as the poet's own heart, while her 
rapt face flushed and paled with thoughts, to whose full 
sweetness and power the utmost music of the human voice 
can give but broken expression. 

This one accomplishment, or rather gift, which might have 
been cultivated to a point of rare artistic excellence, Louise 
lightly esteemed, and seldom could be wrought upon to 
' make a display of her domestic music,' as she called 
it, in society. So it was, that by many, even of her 
familiar friends, the genius of Louise was quite unsuspect- 
ed ; so few had seen her face enhaloed by the rapture of 
music and song, or heard her voice in all its impassioned 
depth, its far-reaching sweetness, and startling dramatic 
power. 

About three years from their marriage, the St. Johns had 
removed to a pleasant country residence near the city of New 
Haven — a change which promised well for Ernest's profes- 
sional interests, for a music-teacher the husband of our 
proud Pauline continued to be. The little fortune of his 
wife was scarcely sufficient for their support ; and even had 
it been ample, Ernest possessed a spirit of honest inde- 
pendence, which would have forbidden an idle reliance upon 
it. I will not pay so poor a compliment to the love intu- 
itions of my readers as to deem it needful to assure them 
that the union of Pauline and Ernest, so plainly in obedience 
to the wise, direct, and irresistible instincts of the heart, had 
thus far proved most happy and harmonious. 

Deeply could Ernest feel the meaning of those lines 
which he loved often to read — the words of the lover- 
husband in Tennyson's ' Miller's Daughter ' — 



185 



* Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, 
Round my true heart thine arms entwine ; 
My other dearer life in life, 

Look through my very soul with thine ! ' 

And like that lover and his Alice, Ernest and his Pauline 
beheld — 

' The still affection of the heart 
Become an outward breathing type ; ' — 

but one of whom it might not be said, 

' It " into stillness past again, 
And left a want unknown before." ' 

Their babe, their boy, their ' little Ernest,' lived to unite in 
one rich inheritance the mother's once proud and sparkling 
beauty, now softened with love and shaded by thought, with 
the pure spirituality which reposed depth on depth in his 
father's eyes, and the nobility which crowned his forehead. 

Pauline insisted on having Louise with her for the first 
few months in her new home. During the autumn, it hap- 
pened that the sisters first became well acquainted with an 
aunt of their mother's, Mrs. Edwards, of New York, who 
was spending some weeks in the city of Elms, on a visit to 
a young son who had lately entered Yale. Mrs. Edwards 
was that charming anomaly, a wealthy, handsome, fashion- 
able woman, with a fresh, kindly and generous heart. She 
was a fine musical amateur, and soon appreciated Ernest 
and his brilliant wife ; but somewhat piqued by the shyness 
of Louise, she cultivated her at first, from a sort of curi- 
osity, which finally deepened into a sincere interest, in ' the 
little muse,' as she often called her. 

On her part, Louise soon forgot her reserve, ceased to be 
awed by the somewhat imposing elegance of her kinswoman, 
and ended by loving her most heartily. So complete was 
this captivation, that Mrs. Edwards had little difficulty in 
persuading her young friend to accompany her to New York, 
there to spend the winter in her family. 
16* 



186 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

On the day succeeding her arrival, Louise wrote thus to 
her sister : 

' I found our friends living in a large, elegant stone 

house, in Place, very far up town. I thought we 

should never get there from the boat. It was about eight 
o'clock when we arrived, and we went directly to the 
breakfast parlor. As soon as we entered, Mrs. Edwards 
was surrounded and nearly hugged to death by the chil- 
dren, the four youngest, all of whom are pretty, and one 
of whom I instantly elected as my especial favorite — Kitty, 
the loveliest creature alive. Mingled up with the children, 
were no less than three dogs — a fine Newfoundland and a 
brace of greyhounds, one of which, most delicately limbed 
and pure white, reminded me of Miss Mitford's " May- 
flower." These came thrusting their long, slender heads 
into their mistress's hands, or laying them against her 
bosom, as sincerely, if not as noisily, glad as their human 
playmates. 

'I think Mr. Edwards must be a good-natured, humorous 
sort of a man, for all this time he had been standing quietly 
on the hearth-rug, with a happy smile spread over his hale 
and handsome face. At length he said — 

'"Well, if the children and dogs are quite through, I 
think I may take my turn" — and, throwing his arms about 
his laughing wife, kissed her half a dozen times. " Now, 
Nell," he cried, " you may take your chance — come quick, 
or you'll lose it !" 

' The young lady thus addressed, Miss Elinor Starr 
Edwards, aunt's only grown daughter, a tall, slender 
brunette, glided gracefully up to her mother, and kissed her 
check, more quietly than heartily, I thought. Oh, sister, 
that is not the way we should have kissed our mother, had 
God left her with us. I greatly fear I shall never love 
Miss Elinor. Introductions to strangers are always formi- 
dable affliirs to me, you know, but I got through with those 
which followed quite bravely, I fancy. The breakfast 



Dora's children. 187 

passed off pleasantly, though the children were rather 
uproarious. The lunch, too, was a nice, little, social 
gathering, to which we came with keen appetites after our 
morning drive ; but the dinner was less agreeable to me. 
We sat down at six, and did not rise till nearly eight — none 
of the children were present, except Master Harry, who, 
begging his fond mamma's pardon, is rather pert — and 
the conversation was principally about persons and things 
of which I knew nothing. After tea, which we took about 
nine, a few familiar friends of the family dropped in. The 
ladies were elegant in dress and manner, but slightly insipid, 
I thought — the gentlemen moustached, imperialized, and 
otherwise " dandical." Elinor sung and played with im- 
mense applause. She is a fine artistic performer, but her 
singing does not approach our Pauline's. 

' My chamber has a pleasant lookout into the Park, is 
handsomely and luxuriously furnished, but is quite too large 
and lofty for my simple ideas of comfort. And, then, the 
servants, who are prowling about every where, have a way 
of whisking every little trifle back into its place, " setting 
things to rights," if you leave your room for a moment, 
which gives you the not over-pleasant feeling of being 
watched. But I suppose I shall get used to this sort of life 
presently. 

' There goes the breakfast bell ! Elinor has just been in 
to bid me good morning, and bring me a bunch of freshly- 
blown flowers from the conservatory. I think I shall love 
that girl a little, after all — but I don't believe she will ever 
care for me.' 

A few weeks later, Louise wrote as follows : 

'You remember, dear Pauline, Mr. Walter Edwards, 
Heidelberg-bound, who spent two or three days with us at 
the time of Frederic's marriage. Well, he has returned 
home, having spent the years, since we saw him, in 
Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Palestine, 
France, England, Scotland, and Ireland. He comes last 



188 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

from Paris. But I must tell you of his arrival. He had 
been expected for some time ; but as he had taken a fancy- 
to come in a sailing vessel, no one knew, at this season of 
the year, on what day to look for him. Yesterday morning, 
as the weather was unpleasant, and I felt very comfortable 
in the library, I respectfully declined accompanying Mrs. 
Edwards on her calling tour — Elinor went to riding-school, 
and I was left quite alone. As I was reading Browning's 
" Blot in the 'Scutcheon," a glorious dramatic poem, I came 
upon an odd, delicious love song, beginning — 

"There's a woman hke a dew-drop — she's so puier than the 
purest." 

I was seized with a desire to sing this in my own odd 
way — so ran to the music-room, opened the piano, and set 
to work. I had some difficulty at first, as the long lines 
and curiously linked words were rather unmanageable, but 
I finally made an accompaniment which at least satisfied 
myself. As I was pouring out the wild, passionate words 
at the top, or rather at the bottom^ of my voice, for I was 
striving to give the deep, fervent tones of Mertoun, as, half- 
fearful of surprise, he swings himself from the yew tree 
branches into the casement of Mildred, my eye was caught 
by a reflection in a mirror opposite. I stopped singing on 
the instant, turned, and saw, standing between me and the 
open door, a tall, dark, very dark, young man, with curly 
black hair, and a huge moustache, a fur cap and cloak, and 
a crimson cashmere waistcoat. Oh, dear, I shall never 
know how long the fellow had been watching me ! My 
first impulse was to fly. I sprang up, and overturned the 
music stool at his feet. He caught it, returned it to its 
place, then, lifting his cap, introduced himself as Walter 
Edwards — as though there was any need of that ! — and 
called me by my name. Strange that he should recollect 
me ! I was stammering out an explanation of my being 
alone, with some common-places of welcome, when the 



DORA S CniLDREr. 



189 



children were let out upon him from the nursery — and 
in the melee I happily made my escape to my chamber, 
wherein I remained until near dinner-time. 

' To-day we have had a dinner-party, composed princi- 
pally of family friends and some fellow-passengers of Mr. 
Walter Edwards — or rather Doctor^ as he brings that title 
with him from Heidelberg. It was quite a little congress 
of nations. We had two Germans, one a baron and the 
other a real live count, a Frenchman, an Italian, and a 
Spaniard ! I hope that our good cousin really liked these 
various gentlemen — did not choose his guests in order to 
show off his own acquirements as a linguist. It is most 
true that he spoke fluently with each in his vernacular, and 
had the air of an every-day familiarity with every known 
tongue. How I wished that papa were present, to touch 
him up on the Chinese ! I think that would have posed 
him. As for poor, stupid me, I could hardly muster 
French enough to keep up a little necessary conversation 
with the lively Parisian artist at my side. 

' In truth. Dr. Walter Edwards is a very fine person — a 
grand person, I should even say — one who has done full 
justice to his native talent and admirable opportunities. I 
admire him, certainly, but I doubt whether I shall ever 
come near enough to him to like him. It is beautiful to see 
Elinor's worship of her stately brother — not that she says 
or does much, but she looks unmixed idolatry. I do love 
that girl ! I have found that she is not cold at heart — only 
quiet in her demonstrations. 

' I suppose we are now in for a round of parties. I 
never can learn to enjoy them, never can think one, with 
its glare and crush, its dainties and polkas, any thing but a 
magnificent bore.' 

A week or two later, Louise wrote : 

' Lo, a marvel ! cousin Walter has shaved ofl* his mous- 
tache ! — his black, silky moustache, and all to please his 
mother. There was no help for it. Aunt Edwards actually 



190 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

limited his kisses to the back of her hand, and kept him on 
a short allowance at that. Elinor will never have done 
grieving for the loss of this badge European, and 1 at first 
thought Walter did not look as well without it ; but I now 
see that it concealed one of the greatest beauties of his 
face — the short, delicately cut upper lip, with its peculiar 
tremulous play. 

' The opera has opened, with Teresa Truffi, a young 
Milanese, 1 believe, as Prima Donna. Mr. Edwards has a 
box, and last night we all went to see Lucrezia Borgia. 
On another sheet I send you my musical impressions. I 
have only to give here a few trifles for your indulgent eye 
alone. 

' When I was dressing for this opera, I was sadly out of 
heart. I knew that it was a place where people were 
expected to look brilliant, and you know brilliancy is not 
precisely my forte. For the first time in my life, I felt 
dissatisfied with my wardrobe — it is so very poor com- 
pared with Elinor's — and my little jewelry-box I shut in 
despair. Finally, I fixed on my dress of India muslin, with 
the slight embroidery — you remember it. I looped up the 
sleeves with natural rose-buds, wove a little myrtle-wreath 
for my hair, and flung over my shoulders my shawl of rose- 
colored crape. I wore but one ornament, the plain gold 
cross, containing some of mother's beautiful hair, which, 
since papa gave it me, on my last birth-day, I have been 
wearing next my heart. Now suspended on my neck by its 
delicate chain, it really looked very prettily. 

' Cousin Elinor was escorted by a certain Mr. Lincoln — 
or " Tom Lincoln," as every body calls him — for whom I 
suspect she has a partiality ; he certainly adores her. I was 
attended by my grave cousin, the Doctor, who might be 
Doctor Faustus, by the awe with which he still inspires 
me. 

' In the box next us sat a splendidly handsome woman, 
about twenty-eight or thirty, I should say, superbly dressed, 



191 



and all ablaze with diamonds. She bowed familiarly to my 
cousin, and favored me with a brief scrutiny through her 
double-barrelled opera-glass, which I thought rather imperti- 
nent, as we sat too near to make it allowable. Walter told 
me that this was Miss Warrington, a great heiress, and a 
leader of fashion — that he fell in with her brother and 
herself in Italy, crossed the Alps, and finally the Atlantic, 
with them — that she was a clever, but rather a handsome 
woman, famous for her coquetries and conquests. He 
visited her box between the acts, and I could but observe 
that his coming gave her lively pleasure, while he soon 
appeared fascinated by her gay conversation and gracious 
manner. I hope he is not in complete thraldom there. I 
do not believe that Miss Warrington can be worthy of a heart 
so noble as his. 

' This morning, while we were in the music-room, listen- 
ing to Elinor's fine playing, Walter, for the first time, calling 
me cousin Louise, asked leave to remark slightly on my 
appearance of last evening. I know not how I could have 
suspected him of such an impertinence, but I thought he 
was about to criticise my plain toilet, and, drawing myself 
up, replied, coldly, " If it so please you, sir." " Then," 
he exclaimed, " I must say that, in my eye, your dress was 
by far the most tasteful and beautiful in the house. It was 

soft, simple, classical, poetical — it was " " Ah, that 

will do," 1 cried, interrupting him ; " the wearer is already 
infinitely your debtor ! " 

' After this, I suppose I was in a particularly obliging 
mood, for when, on Elinor's leaving the piano, Walter 
spoke to me for the first time of the recitation he had 
accidentally heard on the day of his arrival, and plead for 
something in the same style, I sat down at once, and gave 
him that proud " Love-Song of Montrose," as well as I 
knew how. He professed unbounded delight, both by word 
and look. How 1 wish I could believe him ! But it seems 
too much to believe, knowing, as I do, that he has just 



192 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

come from hearing the greatest singers and actors in the 
world.' 

I will quote no more from the letters of Louise, but must 
tell her story in my own briefer way. Yet, entre nous, dear 
reader, you do not lose much, for those letters from New 
York by no means grew in piquancy and interest. Pauline 
complained, indeed, that they were shorter and came less 
frequently than at first, and observed that the name of 
Walter Edwards now seldom appeared in those ' few-and- 
far-between ' home dispatches. That some unfortunate cold- 
ness had arisen, to the detriment of proper cousinly regard, 
Pauline may have thought at New Haven, but appearances 
at New York were decidedly against such a supposition. In 
truth, most pleasant and familiar relations had gradually 
grown up between the two — an intimacy all the closer, it 
seemed, for the native reserve and sensitiveness of both. 
During the winter mornings, they read and sang ; and when 
the sunny days came, rode and walked together, always in 
the full companionship of bright thoughts, the unison of a 
common and ever-increasing happiness. Ere she was 
aware, Louise had passed into a new and larger life ; she 
breathed a diviner yet clearer atmosphere ; the deepest 
mysteries of her nature took simplest revelations ; the mist- 
like reveries, the quick-vanishing dreams of her early girl- 
hood, took fair familiar shapes, and led her daily walk ; and 
when the spring came there was in her heart a spring-time 
of softer sunshine, and deeper bloom, and more entrancing 
song. 

It may also be true that — 

' In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of 
love.' 

Certain it is, that, like the hero of ' Locksley Hall,' Mr. 
Walter Edwards felt 'all the current of his being' setting 
towards his cousin. Thus it happened that, as one evening 
after Louise had been singing his favorite, ' The Love- 
Song of Montrose ' — 



193 



' Do you subscribe to the rash philosophy of these Uncs ? ' 
he asked, reading the verse : 

* " He either fears his fate too much, 
Or his desert is small, 
Who dare not put it to the touch. 
And gain, or lose it all." ' 

' Most assuredly, Cousin Walter. I do not call it '' rash,'''' 
but brave and true.' 

' Then you must not chide me, if I as boldly as reverently 
utter fateful words which may never be recalled, and say 

— and say — that I love you, dear Louise, I love you, 
and ' 

What might have been the conclusion of this sentence is 
a matter for the vaguest conjecture ; for, at that instant, 
good, unsuspecting Mr. Edwards came up and interrupted 
the colloquy of the cousins with some pleasant little ton-mot 

— so all was over, for that night at least. 

In the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Edwards went out of town 
for a few days ; Louise did not care to shut herself up in 
her chamber ; Elinor was taking a lesson in the music-room ; 
Walter was probably in the library, and of course she could 
not go there ; the parlors were too gorgeously desolate, so 
she strolled into the conservatory. Guided by some mar- 
vellous intuition, or it may possibly have been by the 
direction of the servants, Walter found her out and joined 
her. She was bending over a pot of dark-purple pansies, 
inhaling their fragrance, as he entered, and, looking up, she 
said quietly — 

' This simple flower is my favorite, of all the flowers that 
live. My mother so loved pansies — she had them near 
her to the last, and we have quite covered her grave with 
them.' 

Walter had bent to pluck a bunch, and, as he held them 
towards her, said — 

' Theo, Louise, can any thing add to their dearness.? ' 
17 



194 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

* I do not know,' she replied, blushing, ' but I think not." 

' Are you sure that nothing can take from their sacred- 
ness ? ' 

' Yes, quite sure,' she answered, with a smile. 

Then, after pressing them to his lips, he said, in a deep, 
low tone, ' I have kissed them with my love upon my lips — 
riow will you take them ? ' 

Those large blue eyes were cast down ; the sweet face of 
Louise rapidly paled and flushed ; Walter could scarcely 
hear, as he bent over her, the murmured ' Yes ' — but she 
took the flowers — then, ere another word could be spoken, 
she turned, flew through the hall and up the stairs, like a 
poor, frightened bird. 

A little vexed, and a great deal pleased, Walter sauntered 
into the library, took up a book and retired to a favorite 
seat, behind the heavy velvet curtains, in the deep embrazure 
of a southern wiiidow. He had not been long there 
ensconced, when two lively, chatty young ladies, nieces of 
his father's, were shown into the library — just the last 
persons whom he cared to meet on that particular morning 
— so he resolved to remain perdu. 

' Cousin Louise,' as they affectionately called her, soon 
joined them, bringing Elinor's excuses. Louise was a poor 
gossip that morning. Walter could but pity her abstraction, 
and was happy that it seemed to escape the notice of her 
visitors. He fixed his thoughts, as intently as he found it 
possible, on the book before him, and took no heed of the 
conversation to which he was an unintentional listener, 
until his own name struck his ear. 

' I assure you. Miss Preston,' said Miss Sallie Wilson, 
' that Cousin Walter and Miss Warrington are engaged. I 
have it from the best authority that she nursed him when he 
sprained his ankle on the Appenines, and that he in return 
saved her life on the Alps. On crossing the Atlantic, they 
came near being wrecked ; and when they expected to go 
down every minute, they were betrothed — at least, they 
vowed they would die in each other's arms,' 



195 



'It is all quite true — I am absolutely certain,' said Miss 
Marie ; ' and I know that Miss Warrington's and our man- 
tuamaker, Madame Beauseau, expects the order for the wed- 
ding dresses every day.' 

Smothering his laughter as best he could, at the recital of 
this comical romance, so utterly new to him, Walter impa- 
tiently sat out the remainder of the call, which, happily for 
Louise, was not long. That poor silly girl, after seeing her 
visitors off, hastened to her chamber, locked the door, and 
began rapidly walking the room, murmuring bitterly — 
' Fool, fool that I have been, to believe for a moment that 
he truly and seriously loved me ! — 7we, a little, plain, igno- 
rant, bashful Yankee girl ! He was only playing with my 
affections, pour passer le temps, as he would say, in his mis- 
erable, heardess French. I will go home to father and 
Frederic, or to Pauline and Ernest — they only can love me 
— they have somehow grown into the habit of loving me. 
Oh, I never should have left home ! I have no other place 
in the wide world.' 

A knock at the door ! 

' Mr. Walter sends his compliments, and would Miss 
Preston be pleased to walk in the Park this fine morning ? ' 

' No. Tell him I must beg to be excused.' 

Louise had received a letter from her sister by that morn- 
ing's mail, at the close of which Pauline wrote — 

' When I put little Ernest to bed this evening, as I kissed 
him good night for you, he asked so touchingly, " When 
Lulu come home, mamma .'' Ernie not see her for such a 
many days .'" 

' I have just come from looking at him in his sleep. He 
seems a little restless, and his cheek is rather too hot. I am 
apprehensive of the scarlet fever, which has appeared in the 
neighborhood. But don't be troubled — he is not really 
ill.' 

Louise read this, at first, with scarce one thrill of fear. 
She idolized the child, but felt that he could not die. She 



lOG GREENWOOD LEAVE?. 

was all too happy for a thought of death. But now she re- 
solved to go to him at once ; and when she joined her 
cousins at lunch, she announced her determination of return- 
ing to New Haven by the evening boat, stating that she was 
called home by the illness of Pauline's child. 

Ah, Louise ! Louise ! 

' If you really must go, cousin, brother Walter will of 
course accompany you,' said Elinor. 

' It is quite needless,' replied Louise, somewhat coldly ; 
' indeed, I would rather he should not take the trouble. I 
am certainly enough of a traveller to journey so short a 
distance alone.' 

' At least, you will allow me to see you to the boat ? ' said 
Walter, wounded to the soul, surprised and offended by the 
distrust and jealousy which he read only too well. Louise 
somewhat more graciously thanked him, gave assent, and 
returned to her chamber to pack her trunks. Elinor and 
Walter both accompanied her to the boat. From the first 
she parted with some tears ; but Pauline herself, in her 
proudest days, could not have worn an air of more supreme 
indifference than she assumed in taking leave of Walter. 
She shook hands carelessly with him at the cabin door, and 
did not even cast a look after him, as he led his sister to the 
carriage. 

It was not till the night had closed in, and the boat was 
well under way, that Louise stole out on deck. There, 
standing apart, leaning against the railing, she looked into 
the dark water, and shed fast bitter tears. She thought of 
all the winter past, the happiest, dearest time of her life ; 
she thought of Walter, of the evening before, and his words 
of love ; of the morning and his pansies, so burdened with 
kisses — and how she too had kissed them, and hid them in 
her bosom. Shame and anger burned in her cheek at this 
remembrance. She caught them out, and would have flung 
them into the sea, but that she felt something harder than 
their slight stems in her grasp. It was her mother's cross, 



197 



which had become unfastened from its chain. With a shud- 
der at having so nearly lost this sacred treasure, she re- 
placed it in her bosom, and with it the pansies. ' Might it 
not be an omen of good ? ' she asked her heart. 

Seeing that the night had grown darker, and feeling a 
few large rain-drops on her forehead, Louise returned to the 
cabin, flung herself on her berth, and finally slept. She 
was awakened by the cabin-maid, who informed her that 
they had reached New Haven. In her thoughtless haste, 
she had never anticipated landing in the dark and the rain, 
and now felt utterly dismayed. It wanted yet some hours 
of morning, and she had a long ride into the country before 
her. Hastily tying on her bonnet, and wrapping her cloak 
about her, she passed along with the other passengers to the 
gangway. Here she found a crowd of men and boys, from 
whom she shrank in childish, speechless timidity. While 
looking around in tearful entreaty for an officer of the boat, 
or some kind stranger who would befriend her for a few 
moments by calling a carriage and attending to her baggage, 
she suddenly felt her arm drawn within that of a gentleman 
at her side. With a scream on her lips, she turned and 
looked into the smiling face of Walter Edwards! He led, 
or rather bore her to a carriage near by, whereon her trunks 
were already deposited, handed her in out of the storm — 
out of all storms, for he sat down beside her, and held her 
hand in his. 

Now, my dear reader, I know not what your wishes may 
be, but I should not feel justified in following Louise and 
Walter into that carriage, and reporting every thing they said 
on their way to the pretty country home of Ernest and Pau- 
line. Louise, however, has been known to affirm that she 
said little, except to ask Walter's forgiveness for her jealous 
distrust, and that he said little after asking pardon for having 
allowed her to teach herself so severe a lesson. Yet I do 
not think that they dozed through the long ride, nor do I 
believe that their conversation was altogether dry and unin- 
17* 



198 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

teresting ; for when they reached ' Sweetbrlar cottage,' at 
early breakfast time, Walter's fine face looked remarkably 
fresh and bright, and Louise, though she was all blushes 
and glad smiles, bore the traces of recent tears on her fair 
cheeks, and long, golden eyelashes. Feeling that Pauline, 
after the first surprise of their arrival, was looking at her 
rather too searchingly, she caught up little Ernest, (who, by 
the by, has not had the scarlet fever to this day,) and com- 
menced an animated conversation with him. Ah, that was 
a bad move, Louise ! for the child, tenderly wiping her eyes 
with his pinafore, cried out, pitifully — 

' See, mamma, see ! poor Lulu cry ! ' 

In about a fortnight — I am not sure, though, that it was 
more than ten days from this morning — Louise was sitting 
on the simplest and prettiest of sofas in Pauline's little par- 
lor, and (I have good authority for the assertion) with her 
head drooped on Walter's shoulder, or rather on his breast, 
while he was softly laying back the rich masses of shining 
hair from her forehead, and talking to her in low tones — 
for the poor child had a headache ! Pauline, who was pres- 
ent, seemed busy with some papers at her writing-desk. 

' May I ask what you are smiling over so archly. Cousin 
Pauline ? ' said Walter.. 

' Oh, nothing but a little passage in one of Louise's old 
letters.' 

' Ah, read it, pray,' he exclaimed. 

And Pauline read — 

' In truth. Dr. Walter Edwards is a very fine person — a 
grand person, I should even say — one who has done full 
justice to his native talent and admirable opportunities. 1 
admire him, certainly, hut I doubt whether I shall ever come 
near enough to him to like him.'' 

Louise was married at the home of her father and brother, 
one golden evening early in September. Then met to- 
gether a most delightful, though a strictly family party. 



Dora's children. 199 

There was Captain Preston, somewhat paler and thinner 
than of old, and with a shade of sadness on his yet hand- 
some face, but, nevertheless, looking the proud and happy- 
father. There were the grand-parents — Frederic and his 
noble wife, with the Ellsworths — Ernest and Pauline — the 
children — Mr. and Mrs. Edwards — Elinor and Tom Lin- 
coln, (now betrothed) — and George, the young collegian. 

The wedding was over. It was midnight, and Captain 
Preston was alone in his room — Dora's room, that ' pleasant 
chamber which looked out on the sea.' He stood in the 
soft moonlight, before the window, where, long years ago, 
lie had seen her stand, waving her last farewell ; and now, 
with flowing tears and great yearnings of the heart for the 
early lost, but ever loved one, he murmured — 

' Have I been faithful to your charge, my Dora ? Do you 
look with me on the happiness of our children ? ' 

And there, in the stillness and loneliness of the night, an 
assurance came to him, voiceless, mysterious, but sweet and 
blessed, beyond what words may tell, and he kneio that Dora 
was with him — within the circle of his arms — leaning her 
head against his heart, and smiling into his eyes, as in the 
dear old time. 

Louise has become reconciled to the elegance and luxury 
which once almost dismayed her — adapted herself with true 
womanly tact to many of the forms and fashions once so 
wearisome and distasteful to fier, and all without the loss of 
the early freshness, truth, and simplicity of her character. 
She still speaks with a sort of playful awe of her ' splendid 
husband,' and can never cease to wonder what he found in 
her to admire and love. But to others, there is little mys- 
tery in the matter. 

The brothers and sisters spend a few happy weeks to- 
gether every year, at the old seaside home, which has 
received so many picturesque additions, has been so be- 



200 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

winged g^nd be-trellised, that it looks like a small congrega- 
tion of summer-houses. 

Oh, mothers, do you truly believe that Dora was dead 
through all these years ? 



A FEW WORDS ABOUT ACTORS AND 
PLAYS. 



During my present visit to Philadelphia I have had the 
pleasure of seeing the distinguished American actor, Mr. 
Murdock, in some of his finest personations, and have been 
impelled to remark upon them simply and very briefly. I 
shall not attempt an analysis of Mr. Murdock's acting, but 
merely give my impressions — not search after the secrets 
of his dramatic power, but tell the results as T observed and 
felt them. And yet effect can scarcely be earnestly studied 
without our reverting to cause ; and we can hardly 
watch the bright flow of so full a tide of genius and power 
without wishing to trace it back to its deep source in the 
life and in the soul. 

In speaking of our subject, first of all to be noticed, 
because it is above all, and apparent through every thing, is 
the high moral tone of the man. A quick sense of honor 
and delicacy — a sovereign contempt for all that is un- 
worthy, false, and vile — a hearty geniality, a genuine 
warmth of feeling, are qualities which art cannot give, 
though her fair semblances too often pass current with the 
mass. It is in these qualities of a large heart and a true 
nature that the best power of Mr. Murdock lies. He 
would make these felt on the world in any position and 
capacity, but from where he now exercises them, I venture 
to say, their results are greater and more immediate, and 
perhaps more lasting, than they could be elsewhere. This 



202 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

is because the stage is in greatest need of characters and 
qualities of this kind. Men are but feebly impressed by the 
stern virtue of Virginius, the lofty tenderness and severe 
justice of Othello, or the sublime patriotism of Brutus or 
Tell, if he who represents them be a profligate or a bully. 

The cold brilliance of the mere artist does not move the 
hearts of the people — tremendous exhibitions of power 
by the mere actor only stun their sensibility and arouse 
their passions. Something better than these is required of 
dramatic representation in our time — nature behind art — 
truth tempering passion — a higher moral tone, a more 
decided moral force in the actor himself. When the time 
comes that places the actor by the side of the author and 
the artist, as the instructor of the people, and a ministrant to 
their higher intellectual pleasure ; when the world requires of 
him the same elevation of character and worthiness of life, 
the stage will be but taking its rightful place and fulfilling its 
true destiny. To hasten this day, yet, alas ! far in the 
future — the day which shall see the drama redeemed from 
the evil and reproach under which it has so long struggled, 
no one has done or is doing more than Mr. Murdock ; and 
the consciousness that while being true to himself, he is 
elevating and justifying his calling, must be to him his best 
recompense. Were there more of the same stamp in the 
histrionic profession, they would soon compel the world to 
recognize the drama not only as a high department of art, 
but as a medium for moral teaching, an influence and an 
element to be felt more and more powerfully in the social 
state. 

That which seems to me most to distinguish the acting of 
Mr. Murdock in comedy, is elegance — a refined joyousness, 
which never degenerates into farce, is never coarse, or low, 
or boisterous — in short, is never toned down to the pit. In 
tragedy and melo-drama, he is rather subdued, and im- 
presses more by deep feeling than stormy passion. So far 
is he from exaggeration, that you often feel that there is 



A FEW WORDS ABOUT ACTORS AND PLAYS. 203 

more kept back than expressed — and who does not know 
that there is terrible power in repressed passion. This is 
apparent in his personation of Claude Melnotte, but far more 
so in the ' Stranger.' To me it seems that Mr. Murdock is 
unsurpassable in those alternations of misanthropy and 
tenderness, of sternness and heart-reaching pathos, which 
abound in this melancholy German creation. In the first 
abrupt dialogue with Francis, the tones of his voice are 
freighted with agony, and come to us as terrible intimations 
of the fearful secret of the play. But in the interview with 
the baron, and in the last scene with Mrs. Haller, his voice, 
his look, his action, are overwhelming in their effect. Never 
shall I forget his telling the story of his wrongs — now 
hesitating, faint with emotion, now huri-ying to be through 
with the shameful recital, to that last outburst of passionate 
anguish — 

' Kings, laws, tyranny, or guilt, can but imprison me, or 
kill me. But — oh God I oh God ! what are chains or 
death, compared whh the torture of a deceived yet doting 
husband ! ' 

Nor his first words to Mrs. Haller — 

' What would you with me, Adelaide .'* ' 

Nor his reply when his penitent wife conjures him to 'use 
reproaches.' 

' Reproaches ! Here they are ; here, on my sallow cheek 

— here, in my hollow eye — here, in my faded form. 
These reproaches I could not spare you.' 

In such passages as these Mr. Murdock's deep, rich voice 
has a peculiar passionate unsteadiness — a sort of quivering 

— not precisely a trembling, but an undulating of tone, as 
though it were uncontrollably agitated by the tumultuous 
beating of his heart. In all scenes of domestic tenderness 
and pathos, he has peculiar power — the power which no 
actor can acquire without the experience of the nearest, the 
most beautiful home relations and affections — without full 
knowledge of the deep joys and great sorrows of love. 



204 GRKKNWOOD LEAVKS. 

The philosophy of this play of The Stranger, as it is 
now represented, is not of the highest order. Kotzebue 
knew best, after all, and his denouement was truest to the 
character of his noble creation. In the play as written, he 
is at last reconciled to his repentant and heart-broken wife, 
who has fallen, through great temptation and vile deception, 
in the frenzy and despair of jealousy — and takes her to his 
forgiving arms. As it is now represented, he pardons her, 
indeed, but parts from her — leaving her unprotected, and 
a second time disgraced by discovery — childless, alone, to 
die in the shadow of her shame — in the sharp and cease- 
less agonies of her remorse. Such is the terrible retribution 
which society often visits upon the erring woman, but the 
juster, the diviner judgment of the poet was not thus re- 
lentless. Not an empty pardon, and after that desertion, 
from a fear of the scorn and laughter of the world, but full 
forgiveness and kind protection was in accordance with the 
real character of the Stranger, whose misanthropic stern- 
ness, doubt and suspicion were the effect of his belief in the 
total, inexcusable falsehood and depravity of his once 
adored wife. He is not himself, he is frenzied with passion 
when he gives utterance to that execrable sentiment — 

' Sir, a wife once induced to forget her honor, must be 
capable of a second crime ! ' 

Such was not the decision of Jesus. True it is that 
when woman first left the garden of innocence, an angel 
stood at the gate, with a sword of flame, guarding against 
her return to tread again the old happy and sinless parts — 
but he did not forbid her making, amid the wilds without, a 
home of peace, where she might bow her repentant head 
before God, and remember Eden — where she might hope 
in mercy, not despair with an imbittered spirit and a daily 
lacerated heart. But now, a remorseless power, called 
Public Opinion, too often a fiend in disguise, has stolen the 
sword of the angel and chases her through the world. 

But to return. Mr. Murdock's Benedict is a delicious 



A FEW WORDS ABOUT ACTORS AND PLAYS. 205 

piece of acting. This brilliant and spirited character seems 
especially suited to him. The odd fancies and witty retorts 
of the gay courtier have from his lips a fresh point and 
raciness, and sparkle with a new life. It is very much to 
hear his laugh in this part — so rich and musical and care- 
lessly joyous it is. Here, as in Claude Melnotte and Romeo, 
characters for which manly beauty seems quite indispen- 
sable, the fine person of Mr. Murdock gives him great 
advantages. In such characters as Puff, Young Mirabel, 
Young Rapid and the Rover, he is an actor to have charmed 
Charles Lamb. Ah ! how the mirth-loving Elia and his 
gentle sister, Bridget, would have sat night after night, 
laughing till the tears ran, at these admirable personations. 

Mr. Murdock's humor is the very soul of frolic and merri- 
ment. There is about it a hearty and boyish abandon most 
delightful and contagious. But in the sharper and bitterer 
wit of tragedy and melo-drama — in irony and gay scorn, 
all the playful handling of the keen weapons of satire, he is 
inimitable. This is well shown in the garden scene of 
' The Lady of Lyons,' and contrasts finely with the ten- 
derness which he throws into his looks and tones when 
painting to Pauline the home to which ' could love fulfill its 
prayers,' he would lead her. This description he makes 
wondrously beautiful by his splendid elocution. Not alone 
does Pauline ' hang upon the honey of his eloquent tongue,' 
as he paints on the void air with his gorgeous words the 
Paradise of Love, till its rich foliage, and soft blooms and 
bright waters are almost palpably before us ; and not till he 
pauses does it fade away, like a vision of fair enchantment. 

Such passages as this Mr. Murdock always gives with 
great and peculiar effect ; and this not alone from his just 
emphasis and musical intonation, but because he has fully 
received, has absorbed the very spirit of the author. He 
has a ready and clear perception of the subtle delicacies, 
the fine poetical meanings of the words he is uttering. He 
gives us a quaint conceit, or a pleasant fancy with a happy 
13 



206 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

appreciation and with an air of perfect spontaneity. In all 
the sweet fancies and exquisite imagery of tenderness, I 
have never seen him equalled. 

When, as Claude Melnotte, he is conducting Pauline to 
his cottage, he says : 

' Come, dearest, come, 
Pauline. Shall I not call our people 

To light us 1 
Melnotte. Heaven will lend its stars for torches. 

It is not far. 
Pauline. The night breeze chills me. 
Melnotte. Nay, 

Let me thus mantle thee ; — it is not cold.^ 

It were quite impossible to forget the mournful tender- 
ness of his manner, and the passionate sweetness of his , 
tone, in uttering these last words, while enfolding his proud 
love, half-timidly, with his sheltering arms. 

Mr. Murdock, with the grace of his action and the 
thorough gentlemanliness of his bearing, makes of Claude 
Melnotte all that may be made — but the character is not 
great enough for him. It is merely a romantic, not a deep 
or dignified creation, and the central idea, the philosophy of 
the play is not ennobling. There is in it, as in all the 
productions of Bulwer, too much recognition of money as 
the dominant, controlling power of social life — of the 
genius of gold, as mightier than love, to ' help the hurt that 
honor feels,' and rule the destinies of the heart. Claude 
Melnotte leaves Lyons covered with disgrace and bowed 
down with shame, though forgiven by the woman he had 
wronged. He returns after having made atonement for 
breaking the heart of a poor foolish, trusting girl, by 
making widows of some scores of Italian women — for the 
greater crime of his low birth by the winning of a military 
title — for the yet greater crime of poverty by the rich 
spoil of plundering campaigns. The radical fault of the 



li 



A FEW WORDS ABOUT ACTORS AND PLAYS. 207 

play is making Melnotte guilty, whatever his provocation, 
of so meanly and cruelly deceiving the woman of his love. 
The blackness of that dishonor the name of hero could not 
gild, nor all the blood in his veins wash out. This play is 
a sham, with all its fine passages and effective scenes. 
There are, indeed, some very taking democratic sentiments 
scattered through it, but they are not hearty. The democ- 
racy of Bulwer is but a rough, honest mask, which when 
dropped, and it is liable to drop, reveals the cold, sharply- 
cut features, the proud eye, and the supercilious smile of 
the dandy baronet. Bulwer is an aristocrat in blood and 
bone, and does not know how to write for the people. He 
can set his brain to work wherever he sees that it can work 
with most effect, but that piece of exquisite muscular 
machinery called his heart, has no real sympathy with any 
humanity which does not keep its carriage, its liveried 
servitors, and talk largely of its pedigree. 

The finest exhibition of Mr. Murdock's power, which I 
have witnessed, was in the character of Pierre, in the 
tragedy of ' Venice Preserved.' This was indeed magni- 
ficent. The play is a dark and terrible one, this part, in 
particular, requiring great strength and passion. Mr. Mur- 
dock was fully equal to it throughout — throwing himself 
completely into the stern and fierce, yet generous character 
of the head conspirator. In the scene when he refuses 
forgiveness to his faithless friend, Jaffier, he is terrible in 
the reality and intensity of his passion. 

This great tragedy of Otway's is a truly heathenish 
conception — a combination of evil and fearful elements — 
of relentless cruelty, imbittered pride, blood-thirsty re- 
venge, mad hate, and love which is most like hate in its 
sharp intensity. It seems to have been thrown up by some 
mental convulsion from the depths of a soul raging and tost 
with hot and stormy passions. There is about it the beauty 
of sin, fierce and untamed as in her own dark domains, 
and an infernal strength and grandeur. Amid the hurry 



208 GREENWOOD I.EAVES. 

and the tempest, we catch but momentary glimpses of the 
better nature of man, of truth, and gentleness, and kindly- 
affections — as the traveller in a wild night-storm sees 
gardens and houses by flashes of lightning. 

A very charming actress is Miss Alexina Fisher, for 
some years one of the chief attractions at the Walnut 
Street Theatre, Philadelphia, now the ' Bright particular 
Star' of Barnum's Museum, in that city. Here, though she 
plays upon a narrower stage, and to smaller audiences than 
formerly, she has the pleasant assurance that she enlists the 
kindly feelings of a class of people whose regard is well 
worth having — who bestow not alone admiration and 
applause, but good wishes and genuine interest, which are 
not to be flung aside by the actress, like mock-jewels, in the 
green-room, but which the woman may take home with her, 
to solace and inspire in hours of care and toil. 

To this pleasant little theatre come the grave, sober 
citizens, discreet matrons, demure young Quakeresses, and 
hosts of children — all wickedly decoyed into the witnessing 
of vain plays under the innocent name of ' lectures.' A 
great imposition surely, but strange enough, I have never 
heard the victims complain of it. On the contrary, they 
submit with most exemplary resignation, and calmly look 
the evil in the face ; except, indeed, the performance be a 
comedy, when their equanimity is liable to be a little 
disturbed. Without the objectionable features of the theatre 
proper, this is an agreeable and most harmless place of 
amusement, where fairy spectacles, most enchanting to 
children, and the lighter dramas are admirably presented. 

It was at the Walnut that I first saw Miss Fisher as 
* Beatrice.' This character she personated with peculiar 
vivacity and spirit. Her finest piece of acting in this, was 
the scene with Benedict, after Claudio's cruel rejection of 
Hero. She here gave true expression to the generous 
indignation and noble faith of the keen-witted but great- 



A FEW WORDS ABOUT ACTORS AND PLAYS. 209 

hearted woman. I shall not soon forget the arch coquetry 
and pleasant maliciousness of her ' Mrs. Ford.' Verily 
her pitiless victimization of Sir John was a piece of most 
enjoyable wickedness. Her ' Lady Teazle ' is also admira- 
ble. You cease to wonder at Sir Peter's fond infatuation, 
she is so enchantingly provoking — and with that sorely 
tried but indulgent husband, you pardon the sauciness and 
sarcasm of her replies for coming from a mouth so mock- 
ingly beautiful. No one who has seen her as ' Juliana ' in 
' The Honeymoon,' can forget her pride and spirit, her 
charming perversity and pretty petulence ; or help regret- 
ting the ultimate taming of so delightful a shrew. The 
scene in the cottage, where she brings wine at the com- 
mand of her husband, she makes a most laughable example 
of rebellious obedience, of conjugal submission under pro- 
test. She is quite unsurpassable here, especially in her 
emphatic spelling of ' wont ' when she refuses to bring the 
wine. But Miss Fisher has another range of character than 
the merely brilliant and vivacious — indeed she deserves 
most consideration for her versatility. 'Tis not that she is 
unapproachably great in any one department of her art, but 
that she can acquit herself well in so many directions. I 
have never known her fail in any thing which she under- 
took, though she is not always perfect in her conceptions, 
nor is she equal in her personations. She has some 
unfortunate mannerisms, which mar the effect of her acting. 
But when she forgets herself in her character these dis- 
appear. She sometimes rather oppresses her characters, if 
not her audience, with her own exuberant spirits — is more 
likely to err by gifting them with an excess of girlish 
vivacity and restlessness, than of dignity and ladylike 
repose. Yet who would not prefer her impulsive manner 
and lively tones, even though they occasionally overpass the 
idea of the author, to the set airs and drawing-room drawl 
of actresses who measure their dainty steps across the 
18* 



210 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

boards, laugh and weep, embrace and die, with a most 
delicate and doleful propriety. 

I have only seen Miss Fisher in comedy and melo-drama, 
and should not suppose that she would excel in high 
tragedy. Her physique is scarcely suited to it, though she 
is very like Mrs. Siddons' idea of 'Lady Macbeth' — a 
blonde of an exceedingly gentle and feminine appearance. 
Mrs. Siddons' own grand success in this character has made 
it the peculiar property of the actress of imposing presence, 
and of the darker and sterner style of beauty. 

In person. Miss Fisher is small, but not wanting in full- 
ness and freshness. Her fair, expressive face can be arch, 
gentle, loving or scornful, tender or proud, joyous or 
mournful — but never fierce or terrible, can never darken 
with a remorseless hate, or freeze the gazer with the awful 
repose of a stony despair. But, to quote from a friend, ' In 
all those parts of the drama where the less stormy, but not 
less powerful passions are to be delineated — where great 
love struggles with imagined or real duty, or where some 
fearful sorrow is to be borne for the sake of others — where 
great anguish is to be endured for principle — in all things 
that relate to the affections, to the deepest and best emotions 
of our nature, she is truly admirable.' 

Perhaps the character of ' Pauline,' in ' The Lady of 
Lyons,' is Miss Fisher's best personation, though her 
'Juliet' has been pronounced very beautiful. She cer- 
tainly looks the latter character, and is moreover peculiarly 
suited to it by an unusual amount of womanly tenderness, 
that quality so needed in an actress to subdue and idealize 
the sudden, summer-passion of the ardent, yet pure-souled 
child of the South. 

Alas, poor Juliet ! how many, by a weak or coarse ren- 
dering, make of thy beautiful love a childish folly, or a 
voluptuous amour ; how few give it to us as they find it — 
the sweetest, saddest dream of poetry that ever thrilled the 
heart of youth with pure delights and wild longings, and a 



A FEW WORDS ABOUT ACTORS AND PLAYS. 211 

dear pain it would not exchange for joy. The quick, 
spontaneous, yet perfect blending of the fresh, young hearts 
of the hapless lovers of Verona, was not light fancy nor 
wild romance, but the exaltation of sentiment, and the ideal 
of a passion holding within its glowing circle the glory of 
life and the strength of death — and the immortal play 
which chronicles their sad story, flushed as it is with all the 
beauty and ripe with all the richness of Italy, is the most 
gorgeous garland ever woven by Song to be flung upon the 
grave of Love. 

As ' Pauline,' Miss Fisher excels many actresses of 
greater reputation. Her conception is just and delicate, 
and there are parts of her acting most touching and beau- 
tiful. For instance, her listening to Claude's description of 
his palace by the Lake of Como, where her breath seems 
hushed in rapt attention, and all her soul seems radiating 
joy and fond pride through her upturned face ; and when, 
in her humiliation and anger, she taunts him by repeating 
his own language from this scene, she is superb. There is 
the triumph of pride and wounded vanity over love, while 
yet the latter passion has an evident undertone, softening 
the bitterness and violence of the first. Her bearing toward 
Beauseant, when he comes to the cottage in the absence of 
Claude and his mother to persecute and insult her, is full of 
womanly scorn and the dignity of a high nature, which no 
folly nor misfortune can abase. In the parting scene, 
wherein the devotion of the wife, the regeneration of the 
spoilt child of fortune, is complete — and in the last scene 
she is admirable. 

* Julia,' in ' The Hunchback,' is one of her best charac- 
ters. In the gay and careless dialogue with Helen, which 
Clifford overhears, she is charming. Through the proud, 
smiling face and the brilliant tones of the heartless belle, the 
better nature of the woman flushes and trembles, and you 
know that while seeking to mock you she is cruelly mocking 
herself. She acquits herself well in the passionate interview 



212 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

with Master Walter, as also in that with the secretary. The 
exclamation — 'Oh, Clifford! is it you?' is a fine point, 
but a yet finer is her — ' Clifford, why dori't you speak to 
me?' 

When Miss Fisher left the Walnut, much to the regret of 
the frequenters of that house, she was accompanied by her 
mother, Mrs. Thayer, who is deservedly a favorite with the 
public as an actress of remarkable comic talent. As \ Dame 
Quickly,' in ' The Merry Wives of Windsor ; ' the ' Nurse,', 
in ' Romeo and Juliet ; ' 'Nellie,' in ' Extremes ; ' ' Madame 
Deschappelles,' in ' The Lady of Lyons,' she seems to me 
quite perfect. In the latter character, the air and tone of 
her command to the Widow Melnotte — 'Old woman, get 
me a chair ; ' are inimitable. 

One of the greatest, though simplest delights I have had 
of late was in witnessing ' The Cricket on the Hearth,' per- 
formed by this Museum company. It was an admirable 
representation. Mr. Baker did full justice to the fine, manly 
character of ' John Perrybringle ; ' Mr. Thayer was an 
excellent ' Caleb ; ' Mrs. Thayer an absolutely incompara- 
ble, unapproachable ' Tilly Slowboy.' But what shall I say 
of Miss Fisher as ' Dot ? ' I cannot say less than that my 
heart was more moved by the truth, the sweetness, and the 
exquisite tenderness of her acting, than it has often been by 
great exhibitions of high tragic power. In this part, she 
equally charms you by her vivacity and melts you by her 
pathos. To me, there is more power in her simple sobbing 
than in the grand death-scenes of most other actresses. 

This character of ' Dot ' has with me always stood high 
and fair among the author's creations, in pure, symmetrical 
beauty — the beauty of goodness, truth, lovingness and rare 
nobility. I have always felt that she must be a true and 
noble woman who could play ' Dot ' perfectly. This I say 
now, and will add, that lovelier than ever before seems that 
lovely household creation, dear, delicious ' Dot ' — that 
' brightest little star that ever shone ' henceforth shines with 
a new lustre. 



A FEW WORDS ABOUT ACTORS AND PLAYS. 213 

Miss Fisher does not seem to act this character, but to 
live in it entirely for the time. She is ' Dot.,'' the fond 
young wife, petted, but not spoiled — the proud, happy, 
mother, and the tidy, cheerful, bustling little housekeeper. 
It was beautiful to see her tender, coaxing ways toward her 
rough, but loving John, when she set his supper before him 
and pressed him to eat — and then the lighting of his pipe 
— then the sitting down on the little stool, by his side, and 
leaning her head against him with a sense of protection, 
content, and home-comfort speaking in her attitude and 
every look. Such a provoking display of conjugal felicity 
she makes for the benefit of Tackleton — and so saucily she 
talks to the crusty old bachelor, as she stands with John's 
arm about her waist, and pats his hand, in a half-tender, half- 
tantalizing way. But she is most charming while making 
her final explanation to her wondering and delighted hus- 
band — where her laughing and weeping, and ' Don't hug 
me yet, John,' are the cause of as many tears as smiles. 

Miss Fisher has surely fine talent, and, what is more, has 
enthusiasm, the quick, effective impulses of a warm heart, 
and with her youth, beauty, ambition and industry, has 
doubtless before her a fair future of success and increasing 
fame. I can hope much for a woman who has enough 
truth and tenderness in her nature to be ' Dot,' even for a 
few hours every evening — who is capable of looking such 
love, of speaking such trust, of moving in such an atmos- 
phere of household affections and womanly purity. 

Any comment upon the moral tendency of the beautiful 
production of Dickens so happily dramatized, may here 
seem unnecessary, if not out of place. Yet I can but re- 
mark how much more it is in accordance with the growing 
spirit of our age than the old standard romances and plays. 
It is a story for the people — for those who labor and love 
and suffer in the quiet paths and ordinary conditions of life. 
What simple, unquestioning trust — what hearty, yet tender 
household love — what large charity and noble forgive- 



214 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

ness — what rich rewards of pure goodness — what soften- 
ing and regeneration of the hard, bad heart, are shown us 
here! — and who among the old novelists and dramatists 
has given us such lessons to be pondered at our firesides ? 
How far nobler is honest John Perrybringle, who when be- 
lieving his wife, his idolized ' Dot,' false to him, fully for- 
gives her, though after a great struggle, and blesses her for 
what she has been to him in the past, and for all the joys 
she has given him — than ' the noble Moor' 'allaying his 
rages and revenges,' and vindicating his honor by smother- 
ing out the life of poor Desdemona. 

Surely one of the distinctive features of our times is the 
incarnation of the true Christian idea in what is called light 
literature. The religionist and the moralist have created 
many fair forms and set before the world, but, by some 
strange oversight, they have too often left out the soul which 
should have animated these creations. This the poet and 
the novelist have found, and are triumphing in the beautiful 
possession. 

Would that the higher social philosophies, the nobler ten- 
dencies of our day might find eloquent voice in some great 
drama. It would be but a concentration of a divine, pro- 
phetic light, scattered in sparkles and breaking through rifts 
throughout the dramas of Shakspeare. Could Shakspeare 
himself take a new human embodiment and return to us 
now, I am strongly inclined to believe that he would shortly 
be denounced as a ' reformer.' His great soul would scorn 
to be cooped within the pale of conservatism, but would 
leap forward and lead the race of the age. 



THE STORY OF A VIOLET. 



Some time last summer I had the happiness of visiting a 
most agreeable family in Salem, Massachusetts — one of the 
pleasantest, as it is one of the most ancient and aristocratic, 
cities of New England. 

My hostess was a lady of elegant tastes, and true refine- 
ment of intellect and feeling, and withal one who has made 
such good and beautiful use of wealth, that the least favored 
of fortune would scarcely dispute its being her rightful 
heritage and peculiar desert. An accomplished American 
lady, from her position, character, and rare personal attrac- 
tions, necessarily much in the .world, her fine domestic 
qualities, her warm domestic affections, attest that she is not 
altogether of the world. 

A ^Qv/ years since my friend, Mrs. S , made the tour 

of Europe with her husband and daughter, leaving at home 
with his nurse her youngest child, a little boy some three 
years of age. 

During my stay with her, she was so kind as to show me 
a portfolio, filled with simple memorials of the most memo- 
rable places which she had visited on her tour. Among 
these, I found flowers from the temple of Jupiter Serapis, 
from the house of Sallust, and from the tragic theatre of 
Pompeii, with fig leaves from the temple of Isis — names 
rendered doubly immortal by the glorious romance of Bul- 
wer. There was myrtle from Sorrentum, grass from the 
gate of Cumse, and a spray of wild grape from the temple 



216 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Venus, BaicD. There was fern from the Sacred Hill, lichen 
from the Forum, grass from the Capitol, wild vine from 
the Coliseum, and jasmine from the Protestant cemetery, 
where Keats and the ashes of Shelley are buried. There 
were field flowers from the lake of the beautiful name, 
Thrasimine, and orchis from that lake of unapproachable 
loveliness, Como, and a tulip flower from near the tower in 
which Galileo was imprisoned. There was grass from the 
bridge of Lodi, gentian from the pass of the Splugen — 
there were leaves from a tree overhanging the wounded 
lion of Thorwaldsten, cut in the rocks by Lake Lucerne — 
brave little flowers from the glaciers — heaths from Cha- 
mouni, with the Anemone Alpina from the pass of the Jura. 
There was acacia from Ferney, the sight of which brought 
at once to the mind the cynical and infidel philosopher. 
whose sublime egotism of genius was more than a match 
for the hereditary egotism of royalty — a blossom of the 
wild pea from the Castle of Chillon, which even more vividly 
brought before one that lonely prisoner, ' whose hair was 
gray, but not with years,' and for whom a world wept when 
genius told the story of his^ sorrow. There was fir from the 
Black Forest, and a bunch of forget-me-nots from Heidel- 
burgh Castle. Then came a wild rose from Waterloo, 
which one could almost fancy crimsoned with the blood 
once rained upon that awful battle plain — followed by a 
sweet little pensee plucked from the grave of the world's 
most glorious singer, Malibran. There was a trumpet flower 
from the gardens of Fontainbleau, a sprig from a willow 
planted by Marie Antoinette's own hand, and cedar from the 
Chapelle Exyiatoire, Paris. There was ivy from Windsor 
— a rose from Westminster — and a simple daisy from 
Kenilworth, ah, fit emblem and memento of sweet Amy 
Kobsart! There were oak leaves from Blenheim Castle, 
autumn-crimsoned leaves from Oxford, mosses from Tin- 
tern Abbey and Warwick Castle, ferns from Haddon 
Hall, and a magnolia from Chatsworth. Then came 



THE STORY OF A VIOLET. 217 

flowers from Melrose, Dryburgh, Abbotsford, and from the 
grave of Scott. Last came a rose from Holyrood — sweet 
briar from Roslin Castle — leaves from a tree shading the 
cottage of Burns — flowers from the banks of Greta, from 
the valley of St. John's, Rydal-water, Windermere, Rydal 
Mount — and a sprig from a tree overhanging the gate 
through which Wordsworth passed daily for his meditative 
ramble among his beloved hills. 

All these and many more, there were having about them 
some proud or sweet or mournful association, which was as 
a magic spell to bring far scenes near — to restore the past, 
to cause it even to give up its glorious dead. But as I turned 
over this rare portfolio, I found among some of the most 
valuable of those mementos of what had been less a tour of 
pleasure than the pilgrimage of a poetic and artistic soul — 
a common garden violet, carefully pressed, and underneath 
it was written, '•A violet from home, which has been kissed 
by Willie. — Rome."* 

THE VISION OF THE VIOLET,. 

No more the dream, the longing — 

The pilgrim strays at last 
Amid thy haunted temples, 

Thou city of the past, 
Whose eagles once made darkness 

Where'er their wings unfurled — 
Whose seven hills propped a glory 

That domed the ancient world. 

With thy ruins glooming round her, 

Thy columns rising fair, 
With the murmur of the Tiber 

Floating down the quiet air ; 
With the morn-light falling o'er her 

In a bounteous golden shower, 
Sits the stranger still and tearful, 

Gazing on a faded flower ! 
19 



218 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Ah, she little heeds thy grandeurs, 

Or thy woes, discrowned Rome — 
For the vision of the violet, 

The vision of her home ! 
She cannot lose her spirit 

In the glories of thine art, 
For the stirring of a little love 

That nestles in her heart ! 

She heedeth not thy melody's 

Most sweet, prolonged strain, 
For the music of a little voice 

That singeth in her brain ! 
Pictures that the world illumine 

Glow around her, wondrous fair — 
But her heart paints lovelier pictures 

On the morn's delicious air ; 

Of a far off pleasant chamber. 

Looking out upon the sea, 
Scented by the clambering roses, 

Shaded by the swaying tree ; 
Where the shadow of the willow 

Falls across a little bed. 
Where upon a snowy pillow 

Lies a little golden head ! 

Where the morning sun comes early — 

Hastes to wake the sweetest eyes 
That give back the tender azure 

And the brightness of his skies. 
Half believes that dreaming mother 

Eager arms are round her thrown, 
And those sweetest eyes up-shining 

Smile and smile into her own. 

But the lovely vision passeth — 

Babe, and bed, and pleasant room — 

Yet she dews with tears the blossom, 
Breathing long its faint perfume — 



THE STORY OF A VIOLET. 

Ah, 't is sweeter than the fragrance 

Of the gardens of the south, 
And most like the breath once nightly 

Drawn in kisses from his mouth. 

Ye may be treasured well and long. 

Mosses, and sprays, and Alpine flowers. 
With grasses from the battle plain, 

And ivy from old ruined towers ; 
But to that mother's yearning heart 

Yet dearer, dearer far shall be 
The violet that Willie kissed — 
The violet that Wilhe kissed, 

And sent across the sea. 

Thus ever to my wandering heart 

May one dear hope, one memory come ; 

Thus to my deepest soul go down 

One word of peace and blessing — home. 

Be other brows by pleasure's wreath 
Or glory's coronal oppressed. 
To me the humbler flower seems best, 

Some sweet, wild bloom with dews still wet 

So love, but kiss a violet — 

Oh, love, but kiss a violet, 
And fling it to my breast ! 



219 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 



LETTER I. 

Philadelphia, April, 1847. 

Spring is blooming out upon us beautifully indeed. We 
have enjoyed a long succession of sunny and balm-breathing 
days, which render an out-doors' life dangerously fascinat- 
ing to such unfortunate mortals as have work to do. There 
is a luxury in mere life at this season of the year, which 
pours into the most active and energetic natures, a soft, 
dreamy languor, ' a very pleasant idleness,' a delicious and 
most poetic laziness. The mind, submitting to a gentle 
bondage, is for a while well content to bend lover-like over 
the kindling face of nature, just awaking from her long 
winter sleep, to mark in her eyes the blue of clear heavens, 
and in her cheek the flush of coming rose-time, and to 
drink in her first breathings balmy with the tenderness born 
of repose and deep-drawn and heavy with long delicious 
dreams. 

In our city-life we cannot go forth to meet sweet Spring, 
half way, but we know when she is here in earnest. In the 
fields, lily-bells may fling their soft perfumes on the passing 
breeze ; but our Chestnut-street belles, most like to these, 
that ' they toil not, neither do they spin,' arrayed more 
finely, bearing themselves more proudly, sow the air with 
Roussell's best perfumes — ' Rose,"* ' Violet,'^ ' Mille-jleurs,^ 
and ' Bouquet des dames,'' Dandelions are decking the 



SELKCTIONS FROM LETTERS. 221 

meadows, but dandies are flourishing along the pave^ equally 
flash and up-startish. Lilac-leaves and parasols are being 
unfolded ; flowers, natural and artificial, are looking up ; 
fountains 5nd children are playing in the parks ; coughs 
and rheumatisms are going off*, and doctors' bills are coming 
in ; muff's, boas, cloaks and comfortable over-shoes, like long- 
tried statesmen, are retiring from active life, and seeking 
privacy, till the next campaign ; radishes, lettuce, country- 
clerks, and other green things, are coming into town, and 
pleasure-seekers, nature-lovers, and invalids are going out 
for a snuff" of fresh air, the novelty of unobstructed sight, 
and the luxury of unobserved action. 

Will you indulge me in a little musical gossip — a sort 
of informal report of the concert of last evening } To you 
I need hardly acknowledge that I know nothing of the sci- 
ence of music. I am also ignorant of astronomy, but I can 
look up adoringly into the midnight heaven, and the stars 
mirror themselves in the depths of my spirit. I am not 
deep in the mysteries of operatic lore ; I cannot discourse 
learnedly of trills, shakes and cadenzas ; I do not own a 
dictionary of musical terms ; my ear is not trained and 
eager to detect short-comings in time, and transgressions in 
tune. But, with me, the love of music has grown to be a 
wild enthusiasm, a passionate adoration, and music is in 
itself to me, the revelation of a higher life — God's elo- 
quent evangel to the sense — divinity made audible. 

In my present blissful ignorance, nothing is so distasteful 
to me as that mere criticism which coldly analyzes and re- 
morselessly dissects the sweetest strains and most exquisite 
passages ; and I sometimes wonder if we, poor unscientific 
ones, will ever be delivered from the need of critics ; if 
when at the last, we pass those gates, 

' On golden hinges turning," 

and the celestial harmonies break upon our ear, we may 
then be allowed to express our rapture, our ' exceeding 

10* 



222 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

great joy,' without waiting for the better judgment of the 
dilettanti. 

Therefore it is, my friend, that 1 can only speak of the 
effect of musical performances on my own mind, can only 
give my impressions of great musical artists. 

To begin with the one whose music affected me most — 
Knoop. I could scarce believe him all I had heard, when 
he first appeared, a quiet, respectable-looking, stout, oldish 
gentleman, in spectacles. But no sooner had he drawn the 
first soft, bewildering tones from his magnificent instrument, 
than my heart lay hushed within me, and wave after wave 
of richest melody swept over my spirit, till it panted and 
grew faint with excess of delight. In Knoop, I recognized 
the artist and the true-hearted man, and I felt the presence 
of genius. He did not seem to be playing for his audience, 
but for himself alone. Rapt and apart, he sat, bending 
over his beloved violoncello, and they two seemed, like old 
friends, holding sweet and beautiful communion together. 

And Sivori — 'delicate Ariel' of music's magic realm, 
bewitching spright, conjuring with all the delicious enchant- 
ments of sound — pretty, passionate, on^ petit ^ he whom 
one might almost fancy capable of taking up lodgings in 
his own violin. I can see him before me now — his sHght, 
graceful figure, his fine head, crowned with dark clustering 
curls, his eye gleaming with the quick fire of genius, and 
his impatient, nervous action, while tuning his wonderful 
instrument. Now, he lays that instrument caressingly to 
its place, he holds the bow delicately in his small white 
hand, and the diamond ring he wears seems to light it in 
its rapid and beautiful play. Ye gods, ye never listened 
to harmonies such as these, even when Apollo gave his 
musical entertainments, assisted by Prima Donnas Euterpe 
and Erato ! The airs of your sacred mount never vibrated 
to such strains, or the rapturous echoes would have been 
vocal forever! — and silence rests on old Olympus now. 
The first thing which struck me in Henri Herz, was his 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 



223 



freedom from the consequential, ridiculous airs which char- 
acterize the manner of another distinguished pianist, self- 
complacent, pretentious, and plaid-pantalooned, — whose 
parading of a lion-skin sobriquet.^ irresistibly reminds one of 
a certain little fable in -^sop. 

Herz surely plays with far more sweetness and delicacy 
than his rival. He does not raise a fearful tempest of crash- 
ing, and booming sounds, till an Alpine midnight seems 
around us, where 

* From peak to peak, the ratthng crags among. 
Leaps the live thunder ! ' 

He does not thus conjure up ' night, and storm, and dark- 
ness,' scenes of grandeur and of power, and then turn to 
his audience, with a self-satisfied smirk, which says, 'There, 
what think you of that? I'll take your applause, if you 
please.' He does not seem to strive and agonize for effect ; 
he seems rather to seek music as a pastime, as a great joy. 
He does not rule his sweet instrument as a despot, he woos 
it as a lover. 

Were I not at the bottom of the page, I would discourse 
upon a novel musical, or rather 7nusica.\ phenomenon, in the 
shape of a singing mouse^ whose soirees in this city, have 
been quite numerously attended. But as it is, our interest- 
ing dehiUante, Mademoiselle Souris, must bide her time. 
Adieu. 



LETTER IL 



New Brighton, Pa., Oct. 18, 1848. 

If the outward influences of wind and weather were 
suffered to affect my mind to any great degree, I should 
write you a most miserable and ill-natured letter this time. 
It is a vile day, a most unbearable day out of doors. It 
neither rains nor shines, nor blows steadily and consistently. 
Nature is in a fit of the sulks, and wonH be agreeable. 



224 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

It is not decidedly and sharply cold, but the day has a 
pervading chilliness, altogether more intolerable. Pedestri- 
ans hurry by, bent over, with their coats buttoned tightly 
about them, and their hands in their pockets. The farmer 
in his wagon has an azure tinted nose, and lips of the same 
hue, and he occasionally slaps his bare hands upon his knee, 
to bring back the circulation. An emigrant wagon has just 
passed, a thin-faced woman sitting in front, with her lord, 
shivering under a buffalo skin ; the infant pioneers in the 
background, huddled together, and peering out from beneath 
a thick blanket. 

Among all the passers by, not one face looks cheerful, 
not one lip is graced by a smile, not one eye is lit with a 
pleasant twinkle. All go on their way solemn or sullen, as 
though struck with a temporary misanthropy, a new-born 
disgust with human life. Even the village house-dogs seem 
unusually disturbed in temper, out of humor and harmony, 
and keep up an interminable barking, as though looking like 
the famous Diogenes, in bristling expectation for an ' enemy 
around the corner.' 

I will except, however, one dog of gentlemanly habits and 
most aristocratic evenness of temper ; a noble black setter, 
who lies quietly upon the hearth-rug, near me now, his 
beautiful ringletted head filled, most probably, with dreams 
of woodcock and pheasants, dim recollections of by-gone 
larkings and ' /m?'e-breadth 'scapes,' or sweet foreshadow- 
ings of that canine elysium yet to come, where no hunter's 
fowling-piece will hang fire, and no thorns wound the foot 
of the setter ; where every copse and forest hollow is alive 
with the leap of the rabbit and squirrel, and musical with 
the whirr of innumerable wings. 

A friend writes to me to know, if, while I praise the 
genius of George Sand, I feel sympathy in her daring 
eccentricities and peculiarities, by which I suppose is meant 
her donning male attire, cropping her curls, smoking cigars, 
saying ' Sacre ! ' and ' Man Bien ! ' and taking part in politi- 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTEJIS. 225 

cal strife so manfully. To this I would reply, that I not only 
feel no sympathy in such a course of conduct, but do not 
understand it. I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend 
why a woman who conceives herself wronged by the other 
sex, should desire to resemble it. To me it appears that, 
should I suffer wrong and oppression from man, I should 
exult in the dissimilarity which nature had created between 
us, and strive to render it greater by the habits of my life 
and by more intense womanliness of feeling. This scorn of 
one's own sex must be a miserable feeling, pitiably childish 
and contemptible, and one which, need I assure my friends, 
/ am in no danger of cherishing. How has woman been ever 
and always the theme and the inspiration of the poet ; how 
has her love been the hidden strength, the invisible shield 
of the patriot ; how has her faith sustained martyrs, and 
her truth upheld nations ; how has she shown the world 
that she knows well how to suffer and be strong, to live a 
life of peace, humility and sacrifice, and die unknown, but 
with a glory greater than lives in the last fiery glance of 
warriors, or settles on the dead brows of kings. For woman 
Eden first bloomed ; to her arms descended the God-child ; 
before her tearful eyes first appeared the risen Lord ; ah, 
in that dark hour when I cease to honor the sex so conse- 
crated by religion and poetry. Heaven help me ! 

Some of my friends, of a certain class, have questioned 
me concerning my opinions upon ' Woman's Rights.' This 
is a subject not without interest with me. I believe that 
there must be some living truth in sentiments so widely 
spread abroad, and so rapidly gaining ground ; I believe 
that woman has some rights most unjustly withheld. I can 
only say that I have not, as a writer, advocated those rights, 
because I have not felt that inward call^ which I am Quaker 
enough to believe one should wait for, in all such extraordi- 
nary matters. Yet to those who feel conscience and duty 
imperatively prompting them to a bold utterance of truth 
on this subject, despite the horror of over-sensitive friend- 



226 . GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

ship, the shrugs and sneers of fashion, and all the pop-gun 
volleys of senseless ridicule ; to all such I say, God speed ! 
Knowing that some good must come out of the struggle, — 
the strengthening and development of individual character, 
if not the exaltation of the sex. 

I have lately been very much interested by a work of 
Mrs. Jamieson's, ' Memoirs of the Loves of the Poets.' It 
is something to see that however poets may have married^ 
their loves were seldom mistaken or unworthy. They gave 
the deepest feelings of their hearts, the richest homage of 
their genius, to women of truly exalted and beautiful charac- 
ters. What glorious creatures were Tasso's Leonora, Spen- 
ser's Elizabeth, Lord Lyttelton's Lucy, and Klopstock's 
Meta ! Ah, w^orthy, most worthy to wear forever the gentle 
glory with which love and genius have crowned them ! 

Since reading this work, I have thought much upon that 
greatest mystery of literary biography, the History of the 
Loves of Dean Swift, and of his incomprehensible, almost 
demoniacal power over those two gifted, noble, and long- 
suffering women, Stella and Vanessa. There is certainly a 
mystery which I could never fathom in the influence which 
that old, ugly, coarse, passionate satirist, acquired and ever 
retained over those two young, beautiful, elegant, and sen- 
sitive creatures. 

What charm could there have been in his virulent satire, 
in his bitterness, selfishness, and severity, in all the assassin- 
like powers of his desecrated genius, over their genial and 
gentle spirits } 

If genius-worship was the secret of this life-long infatua- 
tion, this terrible ' martyrdom of the heart,' let us thank 
Heaven that the day of sucli homage to intellect is past ! 
Genius, by itself, is indeed a poor object for adoration — 
cold, proud, selfish, and defiant. A great character, a pure 
life, an honorable mind, a warm, faithful heart, — how infi- 
nitely higher, grander, and more beautiful are these, how 
immeasurably more worthy the willing homage of the soul, 
the enduring devotion of the affections. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 227 

Surely much of the court and servile deference paid of old 
to poetical genius, was degrading to manhood and woman- 
hood ; and I rejoice to know that the spirit of republicanism 
is entering into all these things. If to genius belongs what 
it lays claim to, a spiritual royalty, the cry of late has been, 
down with its ' divine rights ! ' Men who find themselves 
gifted with a little more of the immortal fire than their 
fellows, shall no longer presume to live above and beyond 
the common rules and obligations of morality — no longer 
be permitted to ' scatter firebrands and death ' abroad through 
society. It is a mistake to suppose that noble impulses and 
high aspirations always accompany genius, and that a portion 
of Heaven pervades even its errors and degradations. In 
my opinion Burns, in his most lawless moods, never penned 
a worse verse, one calculated to have a more pernicious 
influence, than that ingenious defence of himself, which he 
puts into the mouth of his muse ' Coila,' in his ' Dream : ' — 

' I saw thy pulse's maddening play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven — 
But yet the light that led astray 
Was light from Heaven ! ' 

Only look at the cool impudence of this defence ! He 
' knew his duty, and he did it not ; ' but instead of bravely 
taking the blame and the shame on himself, he would 
ungratefully throw it back upon that Power who gifted him 
with all that redeemed his nature from sensuality and his 
name from forge tfulness. I like to see an independence, 
even in crime, a kind of defiant manliness, a sort of Satanic 
bravery ; and for not all the vice of Burns have I felt the 
contempt which this one poor subterfuge has excited. It 
showed that even his originally fine nature occasionally 
' pointed to the sneaking quarter of the moral compass.' 

Thank Heaven that poets are no longer moral Robin 



228 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Hoods, given up to a life of lawless indulgence, joyous, 
reckless, and irresponsible ; they now recognize a more 
unselfish, a diviner mission for Genius, and know that honor, 
truth of heart, and purity of life are the grandest elements 
of greatness. Adieu. 



LETTER III. 

B , Conn. 

I AM at present domesticated in one of the sweetest 
villages in New England. To me, it is hallowed by a 
thousand tender associations — as the birth-place and early 
home of a beloved mother — where rest many of her dead. 
It is embosomed in the richest foliage — shadowed by the 
grandest old trees, and surrounded by the greenest hills, and 
the most methodically laid stone walls. There are a plenty 
of churches, of course, looking as only New England 
churches can, — spacious and home-like mansions, and then 
comes a sprinkling of the prettiest little cottages imaginable. 
A stream, just large enough to move gracefully and murmur 
deliciously, not far from where I am sitting, is laving the 
roots of the scorched trees, cooling the fevered air, and 
kissing to life again the languid water-lilies, which are 
fainting on his bosom. 

Ah, blesssed, forever blessed, be His name, who has left 
our fallen world yet so beautiful ! Let us rejoice in the 
possession of the fair revealings, the shadowing forth, the 
embodying of divine love and power, even in fragments. 
What a poor compound of madness and folly the sceptic, 
who can look upon this world of ours, even in the wreck of 
its Eden state, and deny all honor and glory to Him, 
whose word wheeled it out of dim chaos, into life, and light, 
and beauty, veined it with leaping, pulsing streams, robed it 
with verdure, gemmed it with flowers, crowned it with the 
golden clouds of morning, and baptized it with the dews of 
evening. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 229 

Cast your eye over this field, at our left. There, 
many years ago, might have been seen a sturdy farmer, 
bending over his plough. A messenger came in hot haste, 
and told in hurried words the stirring story of the fight at 
Lexington : 

* That lightning flash, that thunder peal, 
That told the storm was nigh.' 

With strong resolve written on his brow, and a strange 
fire gleaming from his eye, the farmer hastens home — 
flings the harness from one of those plough-horses — tosses 
on a saddle — mounts in his ploughman's frock — gives 
orders to a servant to follow with his wardrobe and arms — 
calls out his hurried adieu, and gallops off for the conflict ! 

Glorious old Put ! brave and trusty farmer-soldier ! — 
withered be the hand that would rob thy laurels of one 
blood-bought leaf! Homage to thine honest name, and 
honor to thy strong and fiery heart forever ! 

Would you see where they have laid him : the grave-yard 
is not far distant — we will seek it. He lies beneath this 
plain slab — the long inscription is familiar to us both. 
How unlike the epitaphs of our day ; and yet it is com- 
paratively modern. I see your eye flash indignantly, as 
you mark how many have chosen to send themselves down 
to a fool's immortality, by carving their pitiful names on 
this sacred stone. 

Yet this disturbs not the dead. After his stormy career, 
after the tumult of the strife, and the glory of the victory, 
slumbers the veteran, as sweetly, as dreamlessly, as the 
babe they buried but yesterday. Now, no alarm, no re- 
veille, no battle-cry, no shout of victory, nor the clash of 
swords, nor the roar of musketry, nor the thunder of the 
cannonade, may break upon his death-sleep. 

This is a lovely burial-place. My heart yearns over it 
— here rest my kindred. But, dear friends, this summer 
sun looks too boldly down on the couches of our loved ones. 
20 



230 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Surround them more closely with curtaining leaves, and 
canopy them with shadowy branches. Yes ; plant ye trees, 
that the robin and the wren may build their nests, and 
warble their lays above your dead — for when ' the morning 
stars sang together,' over the new earth, fragments of 
celestial harmonies, and sweet symphonies, and cherubic 
strains, floating downward, took to themselves wings, and 
were birds. 

I see no flowers, gleaming up amid the pleasant grass. 
Why are they not here ? They are pure and beautiful still 
as when they budded and blushed in early paradise. Plant 
ye them, and tend them lovingly, that they may make, with 
their perfumed presence, a fitting air for the angels to 
breathe, when they come down to watch beside these 
graves. 



LETTER IV. 

New Brighton, Feb. 1849. 

Many thanks to you for Lowell's ' Fable for Critics.' I 
have been highly delighted by it — or, as the author would 
say, ' Amused in it, by seeing my betters cut up and abused' 
in it.' 

It is certainly full of wit and humor, and abounding in 
capital hits, while much of the criticism is just and genial. 
But then again — oh, sword of Saladin, quick, keen, and 
cleaving ! — thou wert a slim circumstance to this extermi- 
nating satire ! 

My first emotion on glancing through this most meaning 
fable, was self-gratulation on my own happy escape — not 
philanthropic pity for the poor victimized. I was like the 
foolish Scullion, in Sterne, who, when she hears that Master 
Bobby is dead, exclaims, ' So am not If 

But presently came the reflection that my being spared 
in this instance was at the best but a doubtful compliment. 
That no wit-winged arrows hurtled through the greenwood, 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 231 

may have been owing to there being no large game in its 
verdant recesses to tempt the unerring shaft. Or perhaps it 
may yet be a little terra incognita — a portion of wild land 
in the wide domain of literature, yet unexplored by this 
keen-eyed archer, as he merrily goes forth on his sporting 
expeditions. 

Finally, I believe that on the principle held by the 
majority of the craft, that it is better to be terribly cut up, 
than terribly let alone, I will formally apply to ' Diogenes ' 
for a ' proper position,' in the next edition, resting my 
claims on my general popularity, as proved by my having 
paid taxes, in the shape of autographs and locks of hair, — 
and by the fact that a Mississippi steamboat and a Kentucky 
race-horse bear my name, — thus showing that it has had 
something of a run. To be sure, I see by the papers that 
my last mentioned name-sake only came in second in a late 
race ; but I hope that this is not an ominous circumstance. 
If so, I should like to know the name of the successful 
competitor; — if '• Hosea Bigloio,'' I yield, (for my eqiius 
cursor,) once and forever, with the best grace in the 
world. 

To return to our subject — the right of my name to be 
ranked among our Nimrod's Parnassian Game, — I 've been 
daguerreotyped — but, verhum sap ; it sure is not necessary 
for me to recapitulate here all my good claims, to be fused 
up in the same critical crucible with all the great used-up. 
Yet if the time comes when I 'm fairly in for it, look to 
hear me declare I don't care a pin for it. When a good 
share of satire descends on my head, like a merciless ladle 
full of hot lead, — see me smile, as 'twere honey-dews 
falling instead. When there comes a low growl from 
' Diogenes' tub,' to which the generous and good-natured 
public responds in a regular Nick Bottom roar, that wakes 
up the mountains to shout an encore ; — then don't look to 
see me put on (this between us) a martyrfied look, and set 
up for a genius ! Grow miserable, mad, melancholy, mis- 



232 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

anthropic, — and with self for a dread, inexhaustible topic, 
go raving out spite, disappointment, and woe, in such 
terrible verse as the stanzas below : — 

' I have not loved the world, nor the world me ' — 

I hurl my bold defiance in its teeth ! 
I lighten on it with mine eyes — and see 

I wear its persecution as a wreath, 
Woven of roses and gay daffodillies ! — • 

I feed upon its hatred, as a bee 
Sucks luscious honey from the heart of lilies ; — 

What though I'm cheek by jowl with misery, 
The scourge of fools and foes my potent quill is ; 
The while I sit 'neath cypress-glooms and shades of weeping- 
willies ! 

War on the critics ! war ! shall be my cry — 

War to the death on the ignoble herd ! 
Humanity itself is but a lie ! 

Young love a cheat, and faith an idle word ! 
Man's heart no more the pulse of honor quickens ; 

Greatness and genius must indignant fly 
An age that dotes on dancing-girls and Dickens : — 

Jove ! I abjure a land that stupidly 
For foreign goslings can forsake her chickens ; 
And o'er the things she calls Reviews my loathing spirit sickens ! 

Of all the sketches in this unique jeu d"* esprit of 
Lowell's, I think that of Parker, ' the Orson of Parsons,' 
the most strikingly correct. What is said of his sermons, 
would apply equally well to his conversation. He talks 
like an Encyclopedia, a Gazetteer, a Directory, and is all 
over the world and in Botany Bay at the same time. He 
delights, astonishes, perplexes, and pumps one. He is 
a regular tornado of talk, a whirlpool of interrogation, a 
volcanic irruption of ' varied information.' It is amusing, 
not to say edifying, to watch his eccentric excursions, his 
quick, long leaps from subject to subject, between which 
there is no possible, or at least, perceptible connection. It 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 233 

reminded me of one of the sick vagaries of a neighbor of 
ours in New England. This man was very ill of a fever, 
and becoming delirious, he talked incessantly for a number 
of days, about every place, person, and thing on earth, in 
heaven, or in the waters under the earth. At length, nature 
gave way, he became utterly exhausted, his voice grew 
hoarse, then sank to a whisper, then failed entirely. The 
poor man lay perfectly quiet, in a sort of 'waking swoon,' 
and his friends hoped that for a while he had ' ceased from 
his labors,' and would fall into a refreshing sleep. But 
suddenly he sprang up, and exclaimed with much excite- 
ment, in a restored voice, 'Aha! there are two things I 
forgot to mention — Tubal -Cain, and Captain TrumhulVs 
old mill!' 

By the way, this satire is far from complete. The author 
shows either great kindness, or great contempt for ' The 
Female Poets of America,' as they are only represented by 
two — Mrs. Child, and the great unnamed, Apollo's especial 
aversion. Pray are Griswold's entire flock of 'Swans' to 
come in one by one, in after editions ? Heaven help the 
poet, then ! for while Griswold, that grand discoverer of 
poetesses, lives and compiles, his critical rhymes must 
ceaselessly flow on, and his poor, jaded Pegasus eternally 
go on ! Nor may the vision of readers by monotony sad- 
dened, by the blest sight of '^m"s' e'er hope to be gladdened, 
as were the weary eyes of ' the world-seeking Genoese,' 
when the light the Indian bore, flashed o'er the midnight 
seas. 

What an 'infinite variety' from the poet's own nature 
is comprehended in this little volume. With all its wit 
and satire, wild and careless yet delicious humor, what 
a brave, independent, and admirable spirit it reveals. It 
has some most felicitous images, some magnificent lines, 
some thoughts throbbing with inspiration and deserving of 
immortality, some passages worthy of Loioell, in his highest 
and best moods ; what can I say more ! Adieu. 
20* 



234 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 



LETTER V. 



I BELIEVE that in the world of letters, hearty the feminine 
spirit of man's nature, is to be exalted to the throne of 
intellect, and they are to reign together. Now can I see, 
with the clear eye of reason, not the dreaming vision of 
enthusiasm, the dawning of the day of the second birth of 
poetry — the sabbath of truth and of nature. Cannot you, 
cannot all, perceive a change, gradually, but surely coming 
over the spirit and tone of polite literature ? It is no longer 
enough that a poet has imagination, fancy, and passion ; he 
must possess a genial philosophy, an unselfish sympathy, a 
cheerful humanity, in short, heart. And not a heart like a 
walled-up well, undisturbed, and holding fast its own, till 
some thirsty mortal, with toil and pains, draws up a draught 
for his fevered lip ; but as a laughing, leaping fountain, 
flinging its living waters far and wide, creating to itself an 
atmosphere of freshness, and making beauty and melody its 
surroundings. The world will tolerate no longer an arro- 
gant disbelief in its most cherished and sacred truths. It 
will waste no more of its admiring sympathy on the egotisnx 
of misanthropy, or the childishness of a sickly sentimen- 
tality : its poets must look up to heaven in faith, on the 
earth in love, and revel in the rich joy of existence. They 
must beguile us of our sorrows, and lighten us of our cares ; 
must turn to us the sunny side of nature, and point us to 
the rainbows amid the storms of life ; and they must no 
longer dare to wed vice to poetry — a lost spirit to a child 
of light. 

Poets there now are, who receive the divine faculty of 
song, proudly, yet meekly, as at once the most glorious, and 
the most fearful gift of Heaven ; and who with harps, whose 
strains might rouse a nation to battle, or enchant the world 
with the voluptuous breathings of passion, are content to 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 235 

draw from their chords the ' low sad music of humanity,' 
to tune them to the every-day loves, the joys and sorrows 
of the poor and the humble. 

I have often fancied I could imagine the rapturous pleas- 
ure which must leap through the poet's heart, as the humble 
name he sent forth to the world is returned to him in a 
thousand voices. And there are many, who, in contem- 
plating a poet, can understand something of the joy of 
inspiration, when a beautiful imagining gleams on his mind 
like a smile out of Paradise, and a thought of divine sub- 
limity comes to his soul like a whisper from God ! But 
none, save himself, can know the unutterable joy of ap- 
proving, the glory of being able, when the delirium of 
inspiration is past, to look on what he has written, with a 
smile in the eye of his soul. When from the chaos of 
inanimate dreams, and unarranged thought, a grand and 
glorious work bursts into life, and form, and beauty, and 
wheels like a young world into its orbit of immortality, 
sister spheres may welcome it to being, and the morning 
stars in the universe of mind, sing together; but the heaven 
of rapture, the glory of glories, is to him, who can look on 
this, the handiwork of his spirit, and say, ' it is good.' 



I believe the world less lacks goodness than faith in it. 
One suspicious nature makes thousands ; then let us reverse 
the play of children, who ' make believe ' they are men 
and women, and ' make believe ' we are children, loving 
and trusting with all the beautiful abandonment of child- 
hood ; and yet it need not be with all its ignorance. The 
painting Love as blind, was surely a heathen's idea ; it has 
nothing in it of divine revealing. If, in individual instances, 
the warm tide of affection is rolled back on our hearts, it 
must not be to congeal, but to find vent in wider and deeper 
channels. Oh, that mighty and enduring love, bearing and 



236 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

forgiving all things, how like a strong and healthy heart it 
throbs within us ! But that sickly and selfish sentiment 
that shrinks back at a fault, and cavils at a weakness, whose 
faint flutterings could scarce stir the breast of an infant, 
away with it ! 

Dear reader, were all the love that blesses God's universe 
to be strictly measured by the worth of the object, would not 
the air around us be stirred by the quick flight of our guar- 
dian angels? There are two classes of persons who dis- 
believe in the existence of love, pure and unselfish, on this 
earth of ours. Mere worldlings, who have crushed it in 
its first upspringing, and those religionists, who believe it 
blooms only in the innermost bowers of Paradise. But 
strong as my faith in its eternal source, is my belief that it 
yet lives in many human hearts, pure and fresh as a white 
rose-bud, when it glistened with the first dew of the first 
evening in Eden. Now, reader mine, I have something to 
ask of you. When I shall bring to your notice again and 
again, this sweet and adorable sentiment, do not weary of 
it, it is the life of the angels ; do not call it folly, it is the 
very wisdom of heaven. Ah, call not that affectation or 
sentimentality which is my e very-day belief, the alpha and 
omega of my creed, given in ' the words of truth and 
soberness.' 

If there is any thing I detest, it is a nature cold and un- 
impressible, strong and proud in goodness, and harsh in 
judgment ; squaring all conduct by certain unvarying rules, 
keeping aloof from the erring, and therefore the suffering ; 
one walled and barred alike against the breath of feeling 
and the glow of passion — a perfect ice-house of virtue. 
One possessing such a nature, may be held by many a 
'bright and shining light;' but in his presence I am op- 
pressed, I gasp for air, I am most uncomfortable. He 
might suggest it was a proper sense of my own unworthi- 
ness ; but the consciousness of the presence of a legion of 
pure-eyed angels would not give one half so unpleasant a 
sensation. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 23T 

I cannot but look on a harmless humorist as a benefactor 
to his race. Milton, the revered, supporting in old age, 
neglect, poverty and blindness, so royally, is scarce to me a 
nobler picture than Thomas Hood, from whose sick cham- 
ber, for long, long years, came no voice of complaining, no 
misanthropic curses, but the laugh and jest, and words of 
kindly sympathy and good-will : loving always the world 
in which he saw little but suffering ; closing his eyes peace- 
fully and cheerfully on life ; remembering that the mould 
of his premature grave ' nourished the violet,' and leaving, 
at last, a memory which is a smile shining through a tear. 
Adieu. 



LETTER VI. 



As I was glancing over a late paper, I noticed a fine 
poem, on the concluding ' Pilgrim's day,' at Plymouth, with 
a hall. The landing of the Pilgrims commemorated by 
dancing, to the profane notes of the viol ! How would the 
persecuted Puritans have been filled with holy horror, had 
such unrighteous proceedings been prophesied, in their time, 
of their descendants ! To be serious, it seems a most 
unsuitable manner of keeping that great and solemn event 
in perpetual remembrance. It is true, the stern courage, 
lofty independence and matchless endurance of the Pilgrim 
Fathers, laid the foundation of our glory and freedom as a 
nation ; but, driven from the land of their birth, from all 
familiar things — breaking old clinging ties — landing on 
desert shores — surrounded by heathenism, danger, and 
death, what was their life here but a lengthened martyrdom ? 
To what will this passion for feasting and dancing, in honor 
of great days and great men, lead us ? The blood of the 
Protestant martyrs cemented the edifice of our religious 
liberty; are their glorious and triumphant deaths never to 
be commemorated ? May we not expect, one of these 



238 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

days, to meet with some such announcement as this, in 
some English journal : — 

' The anniversary of the burning of Mr. John Rogers, 
at the stake, was celebrated at Smithfield, by a grand 
musical entertainment, fireworks and a ball. The per- 
formance of Signor Flambeaurini kindled to a perfect blaze 
of enthusiasm the admiration of the audience ; and the 
beautiful farewell ode of the distinguished martyr, com- 
mencing — " Give ear, my children, to my words," set to 
music for the occasion by Mr. Russell, was sung with 
rapturous applause. The fireworks went off" with great 
eclat. The ball, which concluded the festivities was a 
magnificent affair, but rather exclusive in its character, 
being principally composed of the lineal descendants of the 
"nine small children" who followed Mr. Rogers to the stake. 
The ladies appeared in flame-colored dresses, with red 
ribbons and roses in their hair ; the gentlemen wore red 
waistcoats, and had their whiskers and moustaches singed. 
The rooms were splendidly decorated with fagots, and 
festooned with pale blue and white gauze, in imitation of 
wreaths of smoke. The supper, most appropriately, con- 
sisted chiefly of broiled steaks, and various kinds of smoked 
and roasted meats. This unique affair has created such a 
sensation, that we understand the immortal burning itself is 
speedily to be dramatized, by one of our most popular 
authors. Some delay has been caused by the agitation of 
the long-disputed question concerning the exact number of 
Mr. John Rogers's children. In all, left he ni?ie, or ten ? 
The debate became alarmingly hot, nor could reference to 
the pictorial evidence of the " Primer," decide it in many 
minds. It was at last, we are happy to say, satisfactorily 
decided by a boxing-match : the " nines" were beaten, and 
we have the pleasure to announce that ten small children, 
one of whom has not yet left the maternal embrace, will 
appear on the boards, at the ardently anticipated repre- 
sentation of this tragedy in real life.' 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 239 

I see that Prentice, the poet, has been accusing the 
Rev. Dr. Bethune of plagiarism, in that sweet little conjugal 
poem of his, which every body knows by heart. Although 
in general, I consider the ' Prentice hand ' as that of the 
master — preferring the lays of the laymen to those of his 
clerical brother-poet, 1 can but acknowledge that the reve- 
rend gentleman has the best of it, in the little circum- 
stance of a prior publication. Both poems are certainly 
very beautiful ; the subject, a wife's various perfections, 
being the most inspiring in the world ; and each writer 
seems to have husbanded his resources for one grand effort. 
The stanzas are almost necessarily similar — I can see no 
ground for a serious charge of plagiarism, on either side. 
Pity if two poets can't fish in the same waters, without 
hooking each others' lines. 

But the sweetest, most charming, most exquisite thing of 
the kind in existence, is the ' Love-Letter to my Wife,' of 
Mr. S. C. Hall. I honor that man — honor him. His 
name should be written in characters of light, on the tablets 
of every feminine heart in author-land. I do not invoke 
blessings on his head — Heaven will take care of its own ; 
but I do say that he should have a gold medal hung about 
his neck by a world's-convention of literary women ! Vic- 
toria, if she even writes her own speeches, should knight 
him — pension him — make all his household-Halls rejoice, 
for he is evidently a husband after her own heart. 

Adieu. 



LETTER VII. 



I HAVE been much interested of late in the ''Fruit, Thorns, 
and Flowers'' of Jean Paul Richter. What reader does not 
feel every nerve jar and ache in sympathy with those of the 
suffering Advocate, as the eternal dusting-brush is whisked 
about, in impious defiance of the divine presence of genius 



240 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

— as his one candle and the flame of inspiration are prema- 
turely snuffed together, or the shadow of a long wick dims 
the keen point of his satire, or as his terse and brilliant style 
becomes involuntarily weakened and vulgarized by over- 
heard colloquies on cap-making, and tautological messages 
to errand-girls. 

It is a sad picture, that of Jean Paul's, yet I think I could 
present a sadder. That of a beautiful young creature, with 
sunshine on her brow, and simple thoughts, hopes and feel- 
ings nested in her heart — one formed for love^ not for 
fame, not even reflected fame — sacrificed in marriage to a 
nervous, exacting, absent-minded great man — an immortal 
genius, with a limited income, and no ' faculty.' Alas, for 
her is no bride-age of gaieties, no matron-age of visiting 
and gossipping, no old age of quiet tea-drinking. Hers, a 
home o'er which broods the deep stillness of inspiration — a 
heart growing cold in the shadow of greatness — a reveren- 
tial pride taking the place of the old familiar love. It is hers 
to bear alone the every-day cares — to perform as hy stealth 
the necessary household duties — to keep the little ones in 
an unnatural state of quietude and good humor, through the 
most trying and fretful seasons of infancy, and it may be, 
without the aid of a Tilly Slowboy, or a Baby-jumper. 

Another picture of matrimonial martyrdom, were that of 
a man of genius, sensitively and fastidiously organized, with 
ever-present ideas of elegance and order, united to a woman 
who, so far from being a Lenette, should possess a morbid 
repugnance to the small cares of housewifery and to all the 
bristled aids to neatness, from the huge dusting-brush, to 
those whose office-work it is to keep smooth and glossy, 
locks of raven or gold, and those formed to preserve in glit- 
tering whiteness those ivory portals, through which pass 
alike love's dainty words, the song, the sigh, the vow, cakes, 
sandwiches and buttered toast. 

Such a man may mark the mind of his wife keeping pace 
with his own ; may find her sympathizing perfectly in his 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 241 

intellectual tastes — joying in his ambition and glorying in 
his success ; but if he beholds her indolently presiding over 
a household without order — seated in a disarranged room, 
amid whose undusted furniture 

' Secure Arachne spreads her slender toils,' — 

wearing a morning-gown all day — twisting up her hair with 
careless unbecomingness — and half tending an infant with 
a soiled pinafore, an unkissable face, then, that man is 
miserable. 

Still another, and even a darker picture, were that of an 
intellectual wo7nan, a sensitive, fanciful, passionate Corinne, 
united in legality, not in reality, to a good, easy, industrious, 
every dayish, well-to-do sort of a man, who in his honest 
simplicity should offer the rye-bread and wholesome ale of 
his hearty and homely affection to her, whose spirit was 
yearning for the nectar and ambrosia of a poetical and 
romantic attachment — for a sweet life-rustication amid 
primroses and poultry, in ' a cottage by the wood ' — for 
a union of heart and soul, charmingly diversified with jealous 
love-quarrels and sentimental make-ups. 

But I think I will lay this last touching word-picture aside, 
and when I am sufficiently ' advanced,' as the reformists 
say, may work it up into a domestic novel, a sort of com- 
panion to Jean Paul's 'Fruit, Thorns, and Flowers.' 

October is now showing itself in the splendor of its attire, 
the living green of the wide fields is fast assuming a hue of 
brown — even the sunlight has a peculiar golden richness 
and ripeness, and the tall forest tree, donning its ' coat of 
many colors,' surpasses, in gorgeous apparelling, the most 
sumptuous monarch that ever filled a throne. 

Now is the season when one whose life is hid in that of 
Nature — one who owns to being the child of that simple 
and old-fashioned mother — loves most to be taken to her 
kindly heart, and to listen dreamily to hs gentle beatings. 
•21 



242 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Oh, time of all the year, for a wearied spirit to pass 
resignedly from the toil and turmoil of life, to its appointed 
slumbers ! We seem now to be learning to die, with meek- 
ness and serenity ; for are not the paling flowers, and the 
changing leaves tranquilly leading our way to the silence 
and darkness of death, as they loose their frail hold on life, 
and mingle with the dust at our feet ? Should not the un- 
questioning humility with which these submit to the decrees 
of the all-wise Creator, come to our hearts as a lesson of 
deepest import ? 

May not a simple flower of the field, smitten by the frost, 
and bowing its head meekly to decay, speak as eloquently 
to a thoughtful spirit, as the sublime death of a Socrates ? 

The young girl whose heart is in heaven, even while her 
feet tread earth's darkened paths, and whose lips and life 
acknowledge God, is stricken with sickness, wastes away 
patiently, and at length closes her eyes in death, trusting in 
Jesus. We lay her to repose, on some sunny May morjiing, 
perchance, and from the turf above her, a violet springs. 

Through the long summer days, while the sweet flower 
blooms, the form of beauty beneath crumbles silently into 
shapeless dust. But the winter winds bring blight to the 
flower, and it falls, withers, and decays upon the faded 
earth. Yet a voice shall come, both to the violet, and the 
maiden — to the one in the spring of the year, to the other, 
in that eternal spring which shall bloom over the new earth ; 
a divine voice saying, ' I am the Resurrection and the. 
Life.' 



LETTER VIII. 

To an intelligent woman of our day, 1 know of nothing 
more suggestive of happy reflection and self-gratulation, than 
the reading of the old Spectator, and remarking the spirit 
and bearing of those articles relating to woman, as she was 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 243 

in the time of the keen, but kindly satirists, Addison and 
Steele. It is our joy, while perusing the old volume, now 
lying beside us, often to pause, and mentally compare its 
Chloes, Parthenias and Sophronias, vain, unprincipled, frivo- 
lous and ridiculously ignorant, with the pure, high-spirited, 
large-hearted, intellectual women, which every social circle 
now can boast. 

Let us imagine the grave Spectator, suddenly awaking 
from his long sleep in Westminster Abbey, and making his 
startling appearance in London literary circles, accompanied 
by his gay companion. Will Honeycomb ! 

Imagine his pleasurable surprise, at noting among the 
feminines, the absence of hoops, powder, high-heels and 
patches, with the simper, the lisp, the mincing gait — of all 
those silly affectations at which he once incessantly aimed 
the keen shafts of his ridicule. Fancy his astonishment, 
at being presented to Mrs. Somerville, the great astronomer, 
to Miss Edgeworth, the novelist, Joanna Baillie, the drama- 
tist, and to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the lofty poet and 
classical scholar ! And then, think of Will Honeycomb, as 
attempting to get up a flirtation with Mary Howitt, or as 
pouring his soft flatteries into the ear (trumpet) of Harriet 
Martineau ! 

Without noisy discussion of what are termed 'women's 
rights,' without treason and without Quixotism, we may 
daily take heart, and congratulate one another, that the day 
of our emancipation from many of the evils and follies 
formerly considered inseparable from our condition, has 
dawned brightly and cheerily ; and Heaven grant that we 
may many of us live to behold its golden meridian. We, 
the women of this age, have much, very much to do, 
and that without going distinctly beyond the narrow and 
jealously guarded ' sphere of woman.' Womanhood must 
be exalted, not beyond itself, but to the full exercise and 
expansion of its high and glorious capabilities. It has 
been falsely said, that poets have idealized woman. It is 



244 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

not in the soul of man to more than realize her in the 
perfect development of her great and beautiful nature. Full 
justice has been done to woman's loveliness, her power of 
adaptation and appreciation, her tenderness, patience and 
devotion ; but the world has not yet fully recognized her 
moral power and sublime energy. It is true that these, in 
the great mass of the sex, remain inert under a weight of 
frivolity, prejudice, timidity and discouragement ; but they 
have been gloriously revealed in individual existences. 
Many women of this age are advocating with impas- 
sioned eloquence a freer and higher development of wo- 
manhood, and though some of these may take strange 
and startling ways of bringing about the ' consummation 
devoutly to be wished,' — though they fling themselves more 
energetically than gracefully into the arena, — yet in all 
this they reveal the apostolic spirit, the boldness of sincere 
champions, and thank Heaven for the token ! Though a 
kind of frenzy may possess them with the consciousness of 
wrongs, peace and serenity may come with the restoration 
of rights. The voices, wild and discordant in sounding the 
battle-cry, may become gentle and silver-toned in chanting 
triumph-lays. 

Heaven bless and strengthen every high-hearted and 
pure-minded woman, who by her life proves to the world 
' of little faith,' that we may attain to an existence higher 
and worthier than that of household drudgery, or ball-room 
frivolity, without sacrificing the domestic virtues, and with- 
out losing all grace and attractiveness ; that we may have 
nobler aims than conquest-making and fortune-hunting, and 
purer, dearer, and more glorious hopes than fashion, posi- 
tion and success in society can satisfy. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 245 



LETTER IX. 

Philadelphia, May 10, 1848. 

Dear M . So here you see I am back again to the 

heat, and dust, and turmoil of the city ; to the patrician 
elegance, the plebeian pretension, and the pitiable poverty 
which throng its right-angled streets ; to the whirl of aris- 
tocratic equipages and the lumbering of drays, the rush 
of engines and the crush of 'busses. 

The glorious week of which I had such glowing antici- 
pations when I last wrote you, has indeed passed, flown 
by, vanished, taken tracks, and gone to join the weeks 
before the flood. Ah, we had a merry, a refreshing, a 
luxurious time of ' vagabondizing,' as Consuelo would say, 
and we all of us turned our faces city-ward most reluctant- 
ly, though with the feeling that we bore back with us a 
new lease of life. Our party consisted of the young poets, 

J. B. T , and T. B. R , the lovely and light-hearted 

Mrs. R , with her fairy Alice, and your own wild west- 
ern child, who, it must be confessed, scarcely behaved as 
though her mother was aware of her absence from the 
paternal domicile. The two first were brilliant and fear- 
lessly natural from the necessity of their poetical organiza- 
tions, and the rest of us mirthful from the influences of the 
joyous season, and the exuberance of pure, thoughtless, 
jubilant and nonsensical fun. We threw aside etiquette, 
proper ways of talking and walking, sun-shades and gloves, 
and gained a sense of freedom, a springing step, and alas, 
a ' complexion, the shadowed livery of the burnished sun.' 

The home of my friend, the distinguished young poet, 
and prince of pedestrians, is pleasantly situated in the midst 
of a country most beautiful by nature, and in a fine state of 
cultivation. Bat the people of K are its greatest at- 
traction. They are social in character, intelligent, inde- 
pendent, large-hearted, kindly and courteous. Such are the 
people who constitute the true life of our country — its honor, 
21* 



246 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

its strength, its free, unconquerable, incorruptible spirit. Let 
city aristocracies oppress with extortions, and waste in ex- 
travagant display as they will ; let political parties go as 
madly wrong as they dare ; our land must still be prosperous 
and great while its country-people are what they are. 

My first visit to the woods during this rustication I shall 

not soon forget. Why, dear M , there I found the 

sweet ' spring-beauty,' ( Claytonia Virginica,) the first that 
I had seen since we left F , long, long ago, is it not .'' 

It filled my eyes with tears to look once again on those 
little modest flowers. The first that I gathered I pressed to 
my lips and heart with indescribable emotion. They alone 
made the woods about look so like the beautiful woods of 
Onondaga, that I involuntarily glanced around for some 
encampment of our old friends the Indians, and felt a sud- 
den inclination to resume my lessons in archery, with the 
old chief, who, malgre his royal greatness, condescended to 
exercise his elegant accomplishment for our amusement, 
and the sake of the penny, set up for a mark. Well, it 
were better to be a penny-archer, than a sovereign target. 

When we had passed through the wood that day, we 
came upon as lovely a meadow as one would wish to see, 
where nature's rich, green carpet was flowered with violets, 
dandelions and strawberry-blossoms, and tacked down with 
little blue Houstonias. 

We followed up a small clear trout stream, to a pond 
formed by a mill-dam, the usual fishing station. Here we 
paused, and selecting our several positions, 'cast our lines 
in pleasant places.' It was for all the world just such a 

pond as the one you will remember upon our farm at F , 

in which I caught my first ' shiner,' and a ducking. There 
were the same old familiar water-shrubs and plants along 
these banks. How the spear-mint penetrated my bosom! — 
how a host of glittering by-gone days defiled before me at 
the first waving of those flags ! — how all my childhood 
came back upon me with a rush. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 247 

In fishing, I did not have as good success as I have some- 
times had, the perverse trout all thronged to Mrs. R 's 

hook ; I could not worm myself into their confidence. My 
poet-friends were more successful ; the silly fish, suspecting 
nothing from the drift of their lines, were speedily drawn 
out, in spite of the proverbial shyness of trout-nature. The 
next day we were all more fortunate, and returned home 
better satisfied with ourselves and the good-natured fish who 
obligingly allowed themselves to be caught. 

We had also much enjoyment and excitement in riding. 
For me a beautiful horse was kindly provided — one as 
spirited as Mars, and as fleet-footed as Mercury. 

One afternoon, while visiting with some new friends, an 
impromptu ride was got up. My habit, cap, and such 
regimentals, were some miles away ; but a dress was fur- 
nished me, and I had the honor of wearing that same, 
identical, low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat which made the 
tour of Europe on foot. As well as I can recollect, I 
neither dreamed of the Mediterranean, nor Maccaroni, the 
Hartz Mountains, nor good Rhenish wine ; but the hat was 
becoming, very. 

In our evenings, we had dance and song, laugh, jest and 
mirthful story ; in short, all manner of pleasant and inno- 
cent merry-making. 

After all, dear M , we returned stronger and healthier 

both in the physique and the spiritual ; lighter-hearted, 
clearer-eyed, and smoother-browed ; more in love with this 
good old world of ours, more in harmony with nature, and 
not we trust ' farther off from heaven ' than when we went. 
And was it not well for us thus to revel awhile in the fresh, 
invigorating atmosphere of true social freedom ; to drink 
again at the fountain of sparkling and spontaneous joyous- 
ness, both of which can only be found in country-life, at 

this blooming and glowing season ? Ah! my beloved M , 

I almost fear that mere existence is becoming too dear to 
me ; yet this I know, while thou art left to me, it cannot 
become less dear, less beautiful and blessed. 



21S GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Good night ! may Heaven's protection be over my home 
and round about its inmates ! 



LETTER X. 



TO THE KDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ERA. 



New Brighton, Pa., Jixly 5, 1849 

Dear Sir, — I received your note last night, and resolved 
to write to you this morning. But, after breakfast, happen- 
ing to stroll into my little flower-patch, I was struck by the 
cool, impudent, well-to-do look of the weeds, which, malgre 
all my care, are fast putting down my poor, little, faint- 
hearted annuals. The practical free soilers — the invaders 
— the squatters ! My blood was up at once, and 1 was down 
upon them, urging a war of utter extermination. 

When my work was done, my victory complete, and the 
narrow alleys strewn and piled up with heaps of the slain, 
the sun was high, and I, wearied and heated, felt particu- 
larly indisposed to further exertion of any kind. The im- 
pulse for writing had evaporated with the dew. So you will 
not expect much of spontaneity or animation in what I 
write, not perhaps because I must^ but because I will. 

' How did you spend the Fourth } ' will be this year a 
question rather difficult for me to answer. I believe I sewed 
very diligently all the morning ; in the afternoon lounged 
about, and read Lamartine ; and in the evening took a stroll 
through our beautiful village. 

And this was the extent of my glorification. As far as 
patriotism and amusement were concerned, it might have 
been any other day, for me. But others, even in our quiet 
place, were not so ready to waive their peculiar republican 
privileges. Men of leisure, lads of spirit, and multitudinous 
little boys, made the day unendurable and the ' night hide- 
ous,' by the incessant discharge of various sharp-toned 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 



249 



swivels, (great bores, though of small caliber) — by patriot- 
ism popping off in fire-crackers, and blazing in Roman 
candles — by the glad tidings of independence sung and 
shouted along the streets, and reeled off like a sailor^s yarn 
on the village green. 

I suppose you had ' great doings ' at the capital, on this 
' Sabbath of the Free.' With the cannon's brazen mouth, 
calling on the drowsy night to rejoice, and proclaiming liberty 
throughout the day — the waving of innumerable banners — 
the flash and glitter and clang of arms — the nodding of 
plumes — the prancing of steeds — the dinners ! the songs, 
the toasts, the pleasant clink of glasses — the odes, the ora- 
tions — all the glorification and jollification, the roar and 
uproar of patriotism broke loose, with its 

' Riddle raddle, fiddle faddle, bang, bang, bang ! ' 

I have noticed that foreigners often seem to enjoy this 
holiday even more than the native Americans, and to feel 
more of its pride and exultation. A friend of ours requested 
an Irish lad in his employ to finish a certain piece of work. 
The boy demurred — the gentleman insisted. 'No, sir,' 
said the young republican, ' I don't intind to lift a hoe the 
day ; I'm in a free country, and Tm able to support it."* 

Apropos of this rich feeling of independence : I was 
lately amused with a reply made by a colored woman, who 
formerly was a slave, but is now living with a neighbor of 
ours, to the presiding genius of our kitchen department, an 
Irish girl. Said the latter, ' Here 's a cloak belongs to your 
master — will ye tak it wi' ye I ' ' My master ! ' exclaimed 
the other, with an independent toss of the head, ' I haint got 
no master — 'cept one, and he's above, ^wsi at present."* 

But how I am running on ! 

I mentioned having been reading Lamartine. I have 
finished ' Raphael,' and am almost through the ' Memoires.' 
Need I say that I am enchanted with both. The ' Raphael ' 
is a pure love-poem in the form of prose, indeed, but a poem 



250 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

in essence. Some think its story an exaggeration, if not an 
utter impossibility. 1 do not so esteem it. It is the ideal of 
a pure, unselfish love, with the depth and eternity of a great 
passion, without sensuality and without satiety. Its glow 
and strength and glory are not borrowed from poetry, but 
are of its own nature, where it existed in all its intensity 
and infinity in the spirit of genius. Every true poet pos- 
sesses a realm of perpetual summer, of more than tropical 
bloom and luxuriance, in his own being — an Italy of the 
soul ; and this is only thrown open to us, truthfully revealed 
in Raphael. 

But this work impresses the sensibilities and captivates 
the imagination — the ' Memoires ' come home to the heart. 
We there love, we enjoy, we feel intensely the artless ways, 
the innocent pleasures, the touching trials of childhood — 
we are carried back to that fresh, glowing season — we 
live in it again, with all its tenderness and truth, its laughter 
and tears, its harmony with nature, and its nearness to 
God. 

It is curious to remark how Lamartine has made this 
entire work little more than a grand memorial, an immortal- 
ization, an apotheosis of his adored mother. 

And to me it seems that it is this sentiment of filial piety, 
this first, purest, holiest flower of the heart, yet fresh with 
its morning dew, yet sweet with its early fragrance, yet 
unwithered by the noon-tide blaze of fame, and unblighted 
by the cares of the world or the frosts of time — which, 
more than his genius or his patriotism, constitutes the pecu- 
liar beauty and glory of Lamartine's character. 

To the benign influence of his mother, and to his having 
breathed such an atmosphere of tenderness in his childhood, 
we may ascribe not only the piety of this noble poet, but 
the strong infusion of the woman observable in his nature. 

But it is of the high-souled, the heroic, the Christian 
woman — one not wrapt in visions, and revelations, and 
ccstacies — walking on clouds and gazing longingly toward 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTKRS. 251 

heaven — but one whose heaven is within and around her 
— looking from her eyes, breathing from her lips, eloquent 
in her life, and triumphant in her faith. 

Again, I say, how beautiful is Lamartine's love for his 
mother ! More beautiful even in its heart- warmth, its ten- 
der, impassioned worship, than that deep love which prevailed 
with the stern Roman, against the hot sense of wrong, and 
* allayed his rages and revenges,' when the noble Volumnia 
prayed. 

How striking and complete is the contrast between Lam- 
artine and Byron, and how much of this difference may 
have been owing to early domestic influences. 

' Heaven lies about us in our infancy,' the one might say ; 
the other would probably have substituted quite another 
word for the ' heaven.' Byron, almost from the first, was 
shut out from the love and holiness of the divine life 
which is the native home of the spirit ; but Lamartine was 
ever drawn toward it, bound to it as with golden chains, by 
the gentle piety and angelic tenderness of that pure, mater- 
nal heart. Her faith has been the anchor of his soul — her 
memory is as a shape of hope and peace, which ever sits 
smiling at the helm of his life-barque ; but Byron floated 
forth alone, on a wild, unfriendly sea, with no ' sweet spirit ' 
to cheer and console, and no hand to save, when the storm 
came down, and the deep waters passed over him. 

Byron'' s mother ! — what arms were hers to receive the 
mortal incarnation of that beautiful and terrible genius — 
what a bosom was hers to pillow that head, moulded like a 
Grecian god's, but destined to be crowned with a grander 
immortality — what a spirit to guide that passion-freighted 
heart, that will of iron and that soul of fire ! What wonder 
that the sunlight of love shone but faintly and at intervals on 
that troubled life. The morning was darkened, the hot 
noon soon overcast, and the night closed in early, with 
gloom and tempest. 

The flippant and ungenerous manner in which Byron 



252 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

spoke of Lamartine, in one of his conversations with Lady 
Blessington, I have always thought a reproach to his memo- 
ry and his heart. The ode to himself, on which he vents 
his spleen in small ci'iticisms, is a noble poem, which he 
must have felt and profited by, had he not been clad in 
the triple mail of pride, egotism, and defiant misanthropy. 

Apropos of egotism, it is objected to Lamartine that he is 
marked by this fault. It is true that his just and liberal 
estimation of his own fine points of person and character, is 
often shown with a good deal of naivete. But in this he is 
more than equalled by the sublime Madame Roland, who 
dwelt on her own mental gifts and personal beauties with a 
generous enthusiasm really charming. I think this a pecu- 
liarity of French genius — Madame de Stael is another 
example. 

Lately, in travelling, I remarked a lady reading ' Raphael,' 
and seemingly with deep interest. But on finishing it, she 
took up and read with as much apparent satisfaction, a 
miserable Mexican war story, with diabolical wood cuts, and 
some such title as ' The Knight of the White Feather,' or 
' The Hero of the Bloody Jack Knife.' She evidently read 
for the sake of the story alone. But some people seem to 
have a sort of love for the beautiful, existing with propen- 
sities for the commonplace and the low ; as cattle devour 
roses and cabbages with the same coarse relish. Adieu. 



LETTER XL 



Niagara Falls, July 29, 1849. 
* * * * :^ * * 

We landed at Chippewa — stopped a few moments at the 
Clifton House — then passed on to Table Rock. 

It was one of the most heavenly days that ever strayed 
out of Paradise ; and, though this was my third visit to the 
Falls, it seemed like a first view, so illumined and glorified 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 253 

were they by that splendid summer sunlight — the sunlight 
which falls as softly and as lovingly upon those fearful 
rapids, and into that tremendous chasm, as on the small 
waves of a gliding rivulet, or down into the still bosom of 
a fairy lake, sleeping amid the shelter of hills, in the 
quietude of the wild. 

And now, how shall I ' wreak my thought upon expres- 
sion ? ' How reduce to visible form, how compress into 
words, the wild, tumultuous infinite emotions of my soul ? 
I will not make the vain attempt. I will leave my thoughts 
to their chaotic state — leave the elements at work, with 
their surging, and murmuring, and fitful gleaming, to pro- 
duce forms of beauty and grandeur hereafter — jierhaps. 

Our first expedition was to Termination Rock, behind 
the sheet. We were conducted by the polite and pleasant 
colored guide, Henry, whom I would recommend in pref- 
erence to all others. To really see the Falls, and feel one's 
soul shaken by their grand idea, one must see them from 
Termination Ro'ck, looking up. The place seemed to me 
the solemn inner temple of the might and majesty of God ; 
where the anthem of winds and waves causes earth to trem- 
ble as it goes up to heaven in an eternal column of sound. 
Never was I conscious of such exaltation yet humility of 
spirit: as the spray fell fast on my upturned brow, it seemed 
like the baptism of our holy universal faith ; like the floods, 
swept over my soul thoughts of the immortal, the infinite, 
the divine, and amid the deeps I could only cry, ' Great 
God and Creator! from everlasting to everlasting Thou 
art!' 

I cannot understand how any one can leave the Falls 
without going behind the veil, and there beholding Nature's 
fearful mysteries. The hour of my initiation was certainly 
the grandest of my life. Would that 1 had it to live over 
again — the hour when in my spirit, as above and below 
me, ' deep was calling unto deep ' — when my life ran 
strong and fast, like the torrent at my side. 
22 



254 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

In the afternoon, we took a carriage for the Suspension 
Bridge, the Burning Spring, and Lundy's Lane. The bridge 
far surpassed my expectations ; I had no idea of any thing 
so light, so ahnost fairy-like in effect, and yet, on a nearer 
view, giving one the idea of perfect strength and security. - 
Of the Burning Spring I am also happy to express my en- 
tire approbation. 

In general, I have little enthusiasm for battle-fields — I 
never would go far out of my way to visit one of those 
human slaughter-grounds : but Lundy's Lane was a splen- 
didly fought battle, with the grandest possible surroundings 
and accompaniments, and I could not look on the scene 
without profound emotion. As I stood on that turf once 
bedewed with the blood of brave soldiers, and leaned against 
old trees whose green young hearts were pierced with balls 
on that day, and who yet bear their scars like gallant vete- 
rans, all became changed about me — the wild scene was 
alive, tumultuous with combatants — the roar of cannon and 
musketry drowns the roar of the near cataract — now sounds 
a charge, now beats a retreat — now goes down a banner — 
now dashes past a steed, riderless and frantic — and the 
flash of swords, the clang of bayonets, the shout of foe 
meeting foe, the deep groans and sharp cries of the fallen — 
the din and rush and smoke and storm of the battle are 
every where. 

I seem to see the gallant Ripley point to the enemy's 
guns, and say to Miller, ' Can you take that battery ? ' and to 
hear the hero's simple Spartan reply, ' I will try^ sir.' 

I seem to watch the fierce and changing tide of battle, 
till night comes on, and the moon looks from her place in 
heaven, as in soft reproof and gentle pity on the mournful 
and terrible scene. 

It was most sad to stand in the old church-yard, by the 
graves of the fallen officers — 'the fresh, young captains,' 
whom their comrades let down to their low beds, where 
they laid with their right hands stretched cold and nerveless 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 255 

at their sides, and where their fiery hearts have crumbled 
into dust. 

After our return from the battle-ground, we crossed the 
river, and put up at the Cataract House. 

My room opened on to a piazza, looking out on the river, 
and I spend half my nights gazing through the moonlight, 
at the rapids and falls. The soft delicious airs, the entranc- 
ing beauty of those starry hours, took all the awfuhiess 
from that sublimest of scenes. 

The second day we spent in visiting the Islands and the 
Whirlpool, and did an immense amount of strolling and 
climbing. 

The Whirlpool did not exactly come up to my expecta- 
tions. I was far more impressed with the scenery about 
it. 

As I was bending over my soup at dinner, a gentleman 
sitting near me suddenly exclaimed, in a low tone, ' By 
Jove, there's Henry Clay ? ' I looked up, and immediately 
opposite me sat ' Harry of the West,' just at that moment 
drawing his napkin across his mouth. I was happy to see 
him looking so well, after his late severe illness. 

We spent a great part of last night on Goat Island, letting 
our souls revel in the delicious moonlight, and in the unsur- 
passable loveliness, the unimaginable grandeur of the scenes 
around us. The lunar rainbow was bending over the ' Hell 
of Waters.' ' Love watching Madness with unalterable 
mien.' 

We find that carriages can be had at very reasonable 
rates, but other things at their usual exorbitant prices alone, 
and that the whole place still swarms with impostors and 
impositions. On our way from the Clifton to Table Rock, I 
noticed that some one had erected a stall for cakes and 
beer, on the spot where Miss Rugg fell over the precipice, 
and was making capital out of her sad story. The old 
fellow pretended to be a miserable cripple, yet told about 
lifting the poor girl, and bringing her up in his arms. 



2^6 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

With the regular beggar's whine, he thrust the following 
rich piece of composition into my hand : 

' THIS IS THE SPOT 

Where Miss Martha Rugg lost her life by falling over the 
precipice, 167 feet, while plucking a flower, August 24, 
1844. This young lady resided at Lancaster, Massachu- 
setts, and was educated in Boston by Professor Fields, 
and was remarkable for her requireinciits (!) in Botany. 

' Woman, most beauteous of the human race, 
Be cautious of a dangerous place — 
Miss Rugg, at the age of twenty-three, 
Was launched into eternity.' 

Damage for the card, ten cents — cheap at that. 

Old Captain Anderson, ' the veteran soldier of Lundy's 
Lane,' is, I doubt not, another humbug. ' Ladies and gen- 
tlemen,' says he, at the close of his excruciating sing-song 
yarn, ' I tell the story as I witnessed it — you may place 
what instruction you please upon it.' 

One of our fellow-travellers, from home and associates 
while here, is a young tourist from Zurich, with the bold 
spirit, clear head, and sure foot of the Swiss mountaineer. 
It is beautiful to witness his daring and most wonderful 
feats, and interesting to mark the intense admiration with 
which they are beheld by his comrade, an enthusiastic 
young German, who is apparently devoted heart and soul to 
his fearless and handsome friend. The two have formed a 
regular David and Jonathan compact of intimacy and affec- 
tion. They are soon to go to the West Indies, from thence 
to California, from thence to China, and from thence back to 
their homes, appearing perhaps some fine morning with the 
sun. 

We leave to-morrow mornin£^ for Lewiston. Adieu. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 257 



LETTER XII. 

Rochester, August 1, 1849. 

At Levviston we spent an hour or two with some kind 
friends, in whose company we crossed the ferry, and storm- 
ed Queenstown Heights. It was quite a gallant under- 
taking, I assure you, as the heat was intolerable, and the 
ascent long and difficult. But the magnificent view from 
the summit richly repaid us for all our toil and loss of 
breath. Some of the grandest scenes we had ever beheld 
broke upon our sight, filling our souls with the peculiar joy 
and exaltation which Nature has in store for her sincere 
worshipers, the true children of the faith. The air of the 
heights blew fresh and cool upon our heated brows, and 
' beat balm upon our eyelids,' as, reclining on the turf, 
near the monument, we gazed and gazed on the deep, dark 
bed of the Niagara below, the beautiful Ontario stretching 
away to the far horizon, and the way oyer which we had 
passed, and the spot on which we had paused, all so 
thronged with heroic associations and terrible memories. 
Up that steep, then rugged and wild, the American regulars 
toiled and fought their way, step by step, till all the ground 
was filled with the fallen, till every tuft of grass grew crim- 
son, and every untrampled wild flower held up its cup, like 
a small goblet, filled with blood ; here was the thickest of 
the fight — the fiercest onslaught, the mightiest contention 
— the loud uproar, the mad fury, the fire, the tempest, the 
hell of battle ! Here our troops, though with their ranks 
fearfully thinned in the ascent, were for a time victorious ; 
and here, though ' fighting like incarnate fiends,' they were 
conquered, surrounded, and overwhelmed by superior num- 
bers. Here, it is said, some, in the fury of their shame 
and despair, flung themselves from the precipice, rather 
than yield to the hated foe ; and yet, all the while, on the 
opposite shore, were ranged hundreds of their countrymen, 
armed and equipped as soldiers, but shrinking and white- 
22* 



258 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 



faced as a flock of frightened sheep. There they stood, 
with all their braggart banners and plumes — with their idle 
swords and silent muskets — and saw rank after rank of 
their brave brothers shot down and bayonetted — the battle 
won and lost ; there they stood and stared and shook in 
their shoes, smitten through soul and limb with the palsy of 
cowardice. 

The British army lost in this battle one great-hearted 
hero, and ours a 'foeman worthy of their steel,' in the high- 
born and chivalrous Brock. How deep and lasting is the 
infamy of the wretched miscreant whose hand brought to 
ruin a nation's tribute to that heroic enemy. The monu- 
ment is yet standing, and may stand for years, though rent 
from summit to base on either side. I hear that quite a 
large subscription was raised some years since by the army, 
every soldier giving a day's pay to rebuild it ; but as a mat- 
ter of Canadian course, nothing has been done with this fund ; 
and the innocent sheep we found enjoying the coolness of 
the height, and even congregated inside the monument, may 
continue to enjoy that pasture and that shelter, undisturbed 
by the noise of chisel and hammer. 

After descending the hill, we stopped for a few moments 
at a small tavern, % the roadside, to refresh ourselves with 
heavy draughts of pure spring water, which needed no ice. 
Here we talked with our landlord about the condition of 
the monument, and found by him that great bitterness of 
feeling existed toward the universal Yankee nation, on 
account of its destruction. The Canadians evidently do not 
believe that Lett acted in the capacity of an independent 
rascal, but merely as the tool of their Republican enemies 
over the river. Said a gentleman of our party to mine 
host, ' I have do doubt but that our army would gladly con- 
tribute for the re-erection of the monument, as we all honor 
the memory of General Brock, who was a favorite even 
with our soldiers, before he fell.' Beef-eating Boniface 
drew himself up with true English hauteur as he replied, ' I 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 259 

don't know why he should have been ; he never showed any 
great liking for them ! We builds our own muniments ; it's 
the Yankees as blows 'em up.' 

From Lewiston to Rochester on the ' Bay State,' a most 
beautiful steamer, commanded by a gentleman. The trip 
was delightful beyond all description. Sweeping down 
that immortal river, passing between the picturesque rival 
forts, at the mouth, and bounding out into the broad, blue 
lake, and then dashing on and on, with a fresh breeze up 
and blowing, and the sunlit waters flashing and foaming 
and careering about us, with the greenest of summer shores 
in sight, and the bluest of summer skies bending over us — 
ah, it was glorious ! Yes, ' too lovely for any thing f as I 
heard a lady say of the Falls. The day had been intensely 
hot, but the evening was deliciously cool, and we had one 
of the grandest of sunset pageants. 

The Hon. — no, plai7i Henry Clay and party were on 
board the ' Bay State.' The great statesman spent most of 
his time on deck, where he was constantly surrounded by 
his faithful and devoted Whig friends. Yet, even amid the 
crowd, a stranger might have distinguished him by the deep, 
live fire of his eye — the splendor of his brow — the per- 
suasion of his lips — the suavity of his manner — the slow 
dignity of his gait — and other peculiarities as widely 
known ; such as the immensity of his long-pointed shirt 
collar, the shocking badness of his hat, and the utterly inde- 
scribable character of his coat. Ah! that unique piece of 
tailorship, whence came it.? What ninth part of a Ken- 
tuckian v/ent through the solemn mockery of measuring, 
snipping, and fitting, and finally deluded the simple, because 
great-hearted, old man into the belief that the thing was a 
coat 7 In very truth, that garment is a mystery to me, 
whence it came and how it came. Perhaps on no mortal 
tailor rests the responsibility of its deliberate manufacture. 
Could it have been horn, like the poet .? — for it certainly 
was ' non jit.'' 



260 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

We went into the Rochester port about ten o'clock at 
night, and the boat was immediately boarded by a large 
and most noisy party of Mr. Clay's friends, hurraing lustily, 
and calling for the grand ' Embodiment.' But Mr. Clay 
had very sensibly sought the rest he needed far more than 
shouts and serenades, and refused to exhibit himself. Great- 
ness was not inclined to doff its nightcap for a set of 
adorers who give huzzas instead of votes. 

I love to visit Rochester, the home of my early girlhood, 
where my few, brief school-days were spent - — though my 
visit always makes me sad. So many of the ' old familiar 
faces ' are gone, or changed to me — to so many have I 
myself become a stranger. Yet there are some, a few gen- 
erous-hearted ones, friends indeed, who hold me in better 
and kindlier remembrance than I had ever hoped for in the 
most exacting and unreasonable mood of my heart. 

Since we came, we have paid a visit to the studio of Mr. 
Gilbert, the artist of Rochester. This gentleman has cer- 
tainly a very fine genius — too admirable, it seems, to be 
confined to portrait painting. Yet I hardly know — I honor 
a man who does just what his ' hand findeth to do,' loell — 
even with a full knowledge that were he differently circum- 
stanced, he might accomplish something infinitely greater 
— and toils on patiently, while bearing about with him, 
amid his humblest labors, the calm, sad consciousness of 
power which has not found and may never find its perfect 
expression and highest development. 

Mr. Gilbert's pictures, though marvellously true as like- 
nesses, have about them a certain life-spirit — a sentiment, 
an idealization, a looking forth of character, which, though 
doubtless elicited momentarily from the sitters, belonged 
less to them than to the genius of the artist. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 261 



LETTER XIII. 

Lynn, Mass. August 21, 1849. 

I REACHED Boston in a terrible rain-storm, and came imme- 
diately out to Lynn, and to the home of my well beloved 
friend. Miss P , with whom I am at present domes- 
ticated. 

The house of my friends is situated quite near those pic 
turesque hills, and immense dark rocks, which lie back of 
the flourishing town of Lynn, and give to its site considera- 
ble of the romantic character, with a touch of the grand, 
and quite sufficient of the beautiful, even with the ocean left 
out of view and consideration. Ah, the ocean ! How I 
' snuffed the hrine afar off! ' How my heart bounded, 
and the blood leaped along my veins, when my ear, listen- 
ing intent, first caught its deep, far roar — the mingling of 
its own gentle and terrible voices, as it murmured along the 
smooth, white, conciliating sands of the beach, or as it 
boomed among immovable rocks, and dashed against black, 
defiant precipices. 

My first, good, long, large view of the ever-glorious sea, 
was, as it always is, after an absence, a deep, inexpressible 
delight — a positive rapture. 

I parted from old ocean, last summer, with keen regret, 
and, though I cannot be so vain as to believe that my feel- 
ings were reciprocated, it really did seem to me that, as 
I came again into his mighty and awful presence, he 
'• smoothed his wrinkled front,' and ' roared me gently,' and 
smiled a grim welcome on the pilgrim who brought, in 
humble homage, such soul-felt reverence, such passionate 
admiration. 

We spent one day of last week in Boston. This noble 
old city is looking remarkably well this season. Its cleanli- 
ness is really praiseworthy, and will be its own reward. 

The Common is looking magnificently after our recent 
heavy rains. What an ornament and glory it is to the 



262 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

tri-montain city ; what cool, quiet refuges, what green, 
shadowy, breathing and resting places it affords from the 
heat, and rush, and confusion, and pestilential airs of the 
narrow, crooked streets, filled with hurrying crowds, the 
endless rattle and rumble of wheels, the fumes of bar- 
rooms, the steam of restaurants, the thick, commingled tide 
of villanous smells poured out of apothecary shops, sug- 
gesting ' all the ills that flesh is heir to.' 

We dropped into the great jewelry store of Jones, on 
Washington street, certainly the most splendid establish- 
ment of the kind I have ever seen. I will not indulge 
myself, nor weary you, by giving a description of some of 
the many exquisite articles which I saw there, for I must 
own to a true, feminine penchant for beautiful jewelry ; I 
can discourse eloquently on rings, bracelets, and brooches 
— grow warm on rubies — get into positive ecstasies on 
pearls, emeralds, and garnets — and go off in brilliant flashes 
and small scintillations when I come to diamonds. 

We paid a brief visit to the exhibition room of Powers' 
statuary. There were two pieces new to me — the 'Fisher 
Boy,' and the bust of General Jackson. The first-mentioned 
is very beautiful, and this, I think, is all that can be said of it. 
That it is a great original work of art, I do not believe. Its 
attitude seems almost a repetition of that of the Greek 
Slave, and there is no reason nor excuse for this figure 
being altogether without drapery. I can see no sentiment 
or idea in the work, aside from a representation of perfect 
physical beauty, and perhaps this is enough ; it is all that 
there is in the Venus, but by no means all that we see in 
the Apollo. 

The bust of Jackson struck me as having great character. 
The hair seemed bristling up with the hickory hero's own 
native stubbornness ; the heavy brow seemed lowering vetos ; 
the lips had the set expression of a defiant will, as though they 
had but lately uttered that terrible, characteristic oath, ' By 
the Eternal ! ' 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 263 

The Slave, and the head of Proserpine, I had before seen. 
Though the former, from its touching associations, impresses 
and interests one most, the latter is undeniably the most 
beautiful, as far as it goes. Indeed, the sense of its sur- 
passing loveliness weighs on the heart, and fills the eyes 
with tears. I do not know that the Proserpine ' tells its own 
story,' as severe critics require that every work of art should 
do, but it certainly tells a story of an exquisite head, and 
throat, and bosom — of an adorable face — of an absolutely 
perfect womanly beauty. 

In speaking of Boston Common, I fear that it will be 
thought I slighted the Fountain. The truth is, we did not 
find the city Undine prepared to receive visiters, when we 
called ; bad luck for us. We only saw the tulip jet, playing 
very low. Another time, we trust she will treat us to a 
finer feast of beauty and flow of Cochituate. 

We also visited Salem, last week. What a substantial, 
stationary, self-satisfied, aristocratic look there is about this 
fine old town. How utterly unlike any other place in this 
changing, hurried, ambitious, advancing, levelling new world 
of ours. But Salem is modern enough to be beautiful and 
elegant, and evidently rich enough to dispense with the 
noise and bustle and mad hurry of money-making. 

After ' Execution Hill ' had been pointed out to me, my 
mind was thronged with sad and awful memories, and I 
looked involuntarily about me as I walked the streets, for 
' weird-sisters,' among the passers by. I saw no wrinkled, 
sinister-eyed old women, but I saw plenty of smiling, 
blooming, young girls, who could not deny their own ivitch- 
ing beauty, were they hanged for it. Ah, it would have 
gone hard whh them, in the good old colony times ! Nei- 
ther trial by fire, nor trial by water, would have saved them, 
for the name of their victims would have been ' legion.' 
After all, we are wiser in our day and generation than our 
forefathers. They hung such as were fairly proved to be 
witches, and condemned as such ; but, doubtless, many 



264 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

escaped through cunning, or bribery, or the pity of others. 
But, in our time, all possessing, or suspected of possessing, 
or thinking they possess, dangerous charms, (this, I fear, 
comprehends universal womanhood,) are immediately ap- 
prehended, and immured in close ball-rooms, concert-rooms, 
school-rooms, kitchens, and nurseries ; deprived of proper 
air, exercise, aims, and comforts ; forbidden to ramble, and 
climb, laugh loud, and wear thick shoes ; compelled to waltz 
into the morning, and sleep into noon ; to subsist on French 
novels and French cookery ; to embroider blue-black bri- 
gands and pink cherubs in worsted ; or, even worse, to toil 
day after day in noisy factories and small millinery shops ! 
Thus are our witches speedily and effectually deprived of 
the mighty spells, the wicked enchantments, which, for a 
brief while, held in thrall the souls of men. Thus, from 
bright eyes grown dim, from rose cheeks grown pale, from 
the plump figure grown spare, from the neat dress grown 
careless, from the ' low, sweet voice,' grown sharp and petu- 
lant, goes out the strong mysterious charm forever. 

Oh, mournful fate of womankind ! Just at this moment, 
a healthy, glowing face was turned toward me from only 
the other side of the table, and a pair of ?m7c/i-hazel eyes 
met mine, and smiled as in unconscious defiance of my 
fancy's sad prophecy. To her, and such as her, I would 
say, if one has a corps de reserve of mental resources and 
heart-riches, to step in and fill up the ranks, as the blooms 
and attractions of youth give way, why, it is all very well, 
and shows good -generalship in this short struggle with time, 
which the poets have named ' the battle of life,' but which, 
with many of us, only amounts to a little- skirmishing, with 
no glory and no spoils, and followed with endless marching 
and countermarching, till some morning, when no reveille 
awakes us, and there is no answer to our name in the roll- 
call. But, joy for you, who doubtless looked for the ' Yours, 
truly,' a page or two back, and sighed to find that the end 
was not yet — joy, for at length the last inch of my paper 
brings me up standing. Adieu. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 265 



LETTER XIV. 

Lynn, Mass. Sept. 15, 1849. 

Since I wrote you last, I have been wandering about like 
a zingara, now here, now there, and nowhere very long. 
One week I spent delightfully with some friends in Salenn. 
I shall not soon forget that visit, nor those whose society 
and kind attention rendered it so agreeable. Our moonlight 
stroll through the ma2;nificent Common — our morn ins; frolic 
in the ocean surf — and then the long horseback rides, and 
the beautiful bay I rode ! When shall I cease to think 
pleasantly and gratefully of these things ? 

During my visit, T accompanied my friends to the East 
India IMuseum — by far the most interesting collection of 
curiosities I have ever seen. 

There is one object, in particular, about which I can 
never cease to wonder. This is a round box, some three 
inches in diameter, each half of which contains a hundred 
figures, carved out of the wood, yet not detached. These 
you are obliged to examine through a magnifying glass. 
It is said to have been the work of a monk, and is designed 
as a representation of heaven and hell. It is wonderful to 
see how much of the divine and the devilish can be put 
into faces no larger than pin-heads. Of course there are a 
thousand other curious and interesting things to be seen, but 
the carved box is evidently the especial pride of the cour- 
teous old gentleman who for so many years has had charge 
of this valuable museum. 

Last week I spent most pleasantly with my friends in 
Amesbury. Here I at once flung aside all care, and as 
much as possible the thought and memory of labor, and re- 
signed myself to be easy and comfortable, after the manner 
of one who, afflicted with indolence the natural way, sub- 
mits to the dispensation with exemplary patience and for- 
titude. 

Here to our walks and rides and boatings belonged a new 
23 



266 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

and peculiar interest, from the pleasantest Puritanic asso- 
ciations — from the ground having been made classic as 
the scene of much which the gentle Margaret Smith has 
recorded in her exquisite ' Journal.' How was the heart 
stirred by such names as Newbury, ' on ye Merrimack,' 
Agawam, the Isle of Shoals, the Agamenticus — and how 
with the gaze of a pilgrim did the eye linger on every sight 
and scene touched upon by the graphic and graceful pen of 
the lovely Puritan. 

But independent of associations historical, poetical, and 
romantic, the scenery along and near the Merrimack is 
certainly very striking and beautiful ; and were I a tourist for 
pleasure, a pilgrim of the picturesque, I should most assured- 
ly follow up that river. I recollect one private residence 
on its banks, not far from Amesbury, which we visited, and 
which struck me as quite the loveliest place I had ever 
seen. One happy circumstance 1 there observed; the dwell- 
ers in this quiet little Eden were gifted with taste and feel- 
ing to appreciate its loveliness ; and, free from all affectation 
of indifference, frankly acknowledged their great good for- 
tune, in being so richly dowered with the beauty of waters 
and woodlands, hill-side and glen. 

It was really charming to mark the fresh, earnest enthu- 
siasm with which all spoke of their beloved home, and its 
delightful surroundings. 

One sunshiny afternoon we crossed the river in a little 
row-boat, and made a memorable excursion to the ' Devil's 
Den.' This pokerish place, a little cave, or rather hollow 
in the rocks, I entered boldly, with no protection save a 
tolerably good conscience, (as consciences go,) and returned 
safely, having sustained no injury, save the loss of a small 
portion of my dress, torn quite out by a sharp projection of 
the rock — an odd way of leaving my peace with the oldest 
inhabitant — 'tis well 'it was not given in pledge for the 
owner's appearance at some future season, when it might 
not be convenient to call. A short distance from this place 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 267 

is a huge rock, over which, according to tradition, Old Nick, 
in a most unjustifiable and husband-like freak, wheeled his 
poor, frighted helpmeet, on the day when, 

* As the lanes were so broad, and the streets were so narrow, 
He was forced to bring his wife home on a wheelbarrow.' 

There was the deep, distinct impression of the huge 
wheel, hot and heavy with its infernal impetus, across the 
top, and down the steep side of the rock ; and, my friend, I 
could not disbelieve my own eyes. Oh ! that the great and 
good Pickwick had been there to see ! 

I had none of my favorite sport, fishing, while ' Away 
down East,' but soon after my return, we had a very pleas- 
ant family party to the rocks of Nahant. I shall not soon 
forget that day of soft air, genial sunshine, and childlike 
mirth and excitement. Our dinner, which we ate on the 
grass, reclining with primitive carelessness and ease — the 
crackers and cheese and pure spring water, and the fried 
fish — the fish caught with our own hooks and lines! No 
royal banquet was ever snufied so eagerly — was ever dis- 
cussed with so keen and healthful and enduring an appetite. 

In fishing, I had not, at first, my usual good luck ; but 
having obtained a position on a projecting point, from 
whence I could fling my line into deep water, fortune finally 
began to favor me with something better than nibbles. But, 
unluckily, the tide was rising, and before I was aware, a 
large wave dashed over my feet; yet, feeling the advan- 
tages of my position for success in fishing, I stood my 
ground, much to the amusement of my companions, till I 
was ankle-deep in the surf. But, like the spirited Mrs. 
Partington, I finally found that the Atlantic ocean was too 
much for me. Had my friend Darley been of the party, 
he might have made a striking sketch of ' G. G., as she 
appeared when enjoying herself.' 

While in Boston, a few days since, I had the pleasure of 
visiting the new Athenaeum — an exceedingly beautiful 



268 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

building, now nearly finished. The library struck mc as 
remarkably fine — in design and arrangement, I mean. But 
few pictures have as yet been hung in the gallery, yet there 
were some admirable paintings, and conspicuous among 
these we saw the ' Belshazzar's Feast ' of Washington AU- 
ston — unfinished. It was a mournful sight, that indistinct 
yet startling scene of splendor and fear — that dim, grand 
outline of the beautiful and terrible, which the spirit of 
genius brooded over long, but which the hand of the mortal 
was destined never to perfect before a waiting world. 

Speaking of pictures, I think that I saw, while in Boston, 
the grandest j^ortrait I have ever seen. This was a like- 
ness of Dickens — a large and most spirited painting by 
Alexander — among portrait painters I should say, ' Alexan- 
der the Great.' Now, I have never seen Dickens, yet I 
would stake my life on that being his face, God bless him ! 
Oh ! those eyes will never go out of my soul ! Why, Pick- 
wick and Sammy, Oliver and Rose, Smike and Mantilini, 
little Nell and Dick Swiveller, Tom Pinch and Sairey Gamp, 
little Paul and Captain Cuttle, David and Peggotty, all look 
out of them at once ! The whole face and figure are right, 
just right — the fitting, pleasing, manly embodiment of 
genius, in its most happy and genial spirit — at home on 
earth, and on the most friendly terms with mankind. It 
would hardly seem that those warm, flexible lips could ever 
curl in bitter, contemptuous irony — that the great heart, 
looking through those clear, dark eyes, could ever spy keen- 
ly for a national fault, and, ' when found, make a note of it.' 
But for his sins against a people, wide humanity will absolve 
him ; and whether he repents or not, I believe he is already 
forgiven by a nation too great to suffer from a misunder- 
standing and consequent misrepresentation, and too gener- 
ous to treasure up a wrong. 

While in at Ticknor's, one afternoon, I chanced to meet 
Mr. Whipple, the critic and essayist. He is a most striking 
person. His head is grand in its proportions, and his face 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 269 

full of character. His peculiar, terse, epigrammatic style 
of talk rivets one's attention at once ; yet he says his witty 
and brilliant things in the most calm, unconscious matter-of- 
course way imaginable. 



LETTER XV. 



Lynn, Mas3. Sept. 2G, 1849. 

I AM writing to you this delicious and Eden-like morning 
in a novel situation, and with the most romantic surround- 
ings. At the summit of one of those beautiful hills which 
lie back of the town, I am seated in primitive style, on the 
mossy and leaf-strewn ground, with my portfolio on a rock 
at my side. To this spot we often resort, in the sunny 
autumn days — my friend A. and I — and spend hours with 
our favorite books, and sometimes, as to-day, with our 
writing. We even received callers here one afternoon, 
lately; some friends who, riding over from Salem, to find 
us out, followed us up to our wild lair. They seemed 
pleased with our drawing-room, though they probably found 
our sofas rather hard. 

This of all places is the one wherein to read Tennyson, 
or Bryant, or Longfellow, aright ; here we most deeply feel 
how much of the life and soul of Nature has entered into 
their verse, making it audible evermore with her grand, or 
glad, or melancholy voices. 

Above us, tall, dark pines are swaying and murmuring 
continuously in the morning wind, which blows fresh yet 
sweet from the southwest ; ' the only wind on the face of 
the earth which comes from heaven,' says the friend at my 
side, who, lounging on the turf, is eagerly drinking in the 
soft air, in long, grateful draughts. Around us, young 
beeches and slender maples, festooned with the wild grape 
and luxuriant ivy, are swinging their lithe branches and 
23* 



270 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

fluttering their yet fresh leaves in the glad sunlight; the 
solemn cedar seems half to forget his established character 
for serious-mindedness, and to put on an unwonted light- 
ness ; and all around the barberry, with its fairy-like fruit, 
in long, red clusters, and the aster and the golden-rod make 
beautiful the shadowed woodland paths. From the rock in 
front of us, we look down on the well-built and interminable 
town, stretching itself along the coast — and beyond, the 
grand ocean scene on which I could never weary of gazing 
— the long, white beach, the harbor with its picturesque 
islands, the innumerable sails at sea, glimmering in the sun- 
light and fading down the horizon. Far to the right rises 
the smoke, and gleam the spires of Boston — there towers 
the glorious monument, reared by the true, patriotic soul of 
our country, to 'the onward cheer and summons' of her 
loftiest eloquence and her richest song. Erected there to 
mark the scene of her earliest and noblest struggle, may it 
stand as long as her name and history endure, or perish 
only with her liberties and her honor. 

Ah, ' it is good to be hero ! ' I would that all my nature- 
loving, fresh, and free-hearted friends of the town, could be 
taken from the bondage and weariness of business and 
fashion, and suddenly let loose among these hills. How 
would we Vv^ake with laughter the echoes sleeping amid the 
rocks, and drown with the sound of pleasant voices the sad, 
unquiet murmur of these pines. 

My intimations of a previous existence are all of a pastoral 
or gipsy life. I am more at home in the woods than in 
the drawing-room — the roused blood pours more richly 
through my heart the moment I breathe the air of the hills 
— my very step grows more sure and elastic, when its way 
is over rocks and up steeps and down into dells. To-day, 
the beauty and gladness and glory of Nature are flooding 
my senses, till mere existence becomes an exultation and 
an ecstasy. I know not what I write — my thoughts and 
fancies seem to be taking a holiday on their own account ; 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 271 

a bird on the wing darts past, and off fly they in company, 
reveling in his freedom and echoing his song — now they 
are sailing away on floating clouds, or dipping down into 
the surf, like sea-birds. 

How, in the name of nature, do you exist in the city on 
such a day as this ? Do you not sometimes lose yourself i^i 
luxurious dreams of woodland haunts, of quiet, shadowed 
places, where the soft winds are at play ? Do you not listen 
involuntarily for the voice of birds and the chime of waters 
— listen with the mysterious inward sense, while the out- 
ward grows deaf to the importunate call for ' Copy ? ' Do 
you not start up and cry, with Longfellow's Cruzado — 

' I hate the crowded town ! 
I cannot live shut up within its gates ; 
Air — I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, 
The feeling of the breeze against my face, 
The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, 
And no walls but the far-off mountain tops. 
Then I am free and strong — once more myself.' 

By this I am reminded of an incident, or rather the inci- 
dent of yesterday — an accidental meeting with the poet 
from whom I have quoted the above lines. It happened 
where many a pleasant meeting has happened, at Ticknor's. 
Aside from mere curiosity, of which I suppose I have my 
woman's share, I have always wished to look on the flesh 
and blood embodiment of that rare genius, of that mind 
stored with the wealth of many literatures, the lore of many 
lands, for in Longfellow it is the scholar as well as the poet 
whom we reverence. The first glance satisfied me of one 
happy circumstance — that the life and health which throb- 
bed and glowed through this poet's verse had their natural 
correspondences in the physical. He appears perfectly 
healthful and vigorous — is rather English in person. His 
head is simply full, well-rounded, and even — not severe or 
massive in character. The first glance of his genial eyes, 



272 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

which seem to have gathered up sunshine through all the 
summers they have known, and the first tones of his cordial 
voice, show one that he has not impoverished his own 
nature in so generously endowing the creations of his genius 
— has not drained his heart of the wine of life, to fill high 
the beaker of his song. 

Mr. Longfellow does not look poetical, as Keats looked 
poetical, perhaps, but, as Hood says of Gray's precocious 
youth, who used to get up early, 

' To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ' — 

' he died young.' But, what is better, our poet looks well,, 
for, after all, health is the best, most happy and glorious 
thing in the world. On my Parnassus there should be no 
half-demented, long-haired, ill-dressed bards, lean and pale, 
subject to sudden attacks of poetic frenzy — sitting on damp 
clouds, and harping to the winds ; but they should be a 
hearty, manly, vigorous set of inspired gentlemen^ erect 
and broad-chested, with features more on the robust than the 
romantic style — writing in snug studies, or fine, large libra- 
ries, surrounded by beauty, elegance and comfort — receiving 
inspiration quietly and at regular hours, after a hot break- 
fast, the morning paper and a cigar — given to hospitality 
and good dinners — driving their own bays, and treating 
their excellent wives to a box at the opera, a season at New- 
port, a trip to the Falls, or a winter in Rome. 

The comforts of life have been long enough monopolized 
by thrifty tradesmen — ' men in the coal and cattle line ' — 
and good living by bishops and aldermen. It is the divine 
right of genius to be well kept and cared for by the world, 
which too often ' entertains the angel unaware,' on thin 
soups and sour wines, or, at the best, on unsubstantial piiff" 
paste. 

I heard yesterday that Fredrika Bremer had really arrived 
in New York. I hope that it is so. She has hosts of ad- 
mirers all over our country, and is actually loved, as ievf 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 273 

authors are loved, with a sunple, cordial, home afFection — 
for she is especially a writer for the fireside, the family cir- 
cle, and thus addresses herself to the affections of a people, 
whose purest joys and deepest interests centre in domestic 
life. America will take to her heart this child of genius and 
of nature — her home shall be by every hearth in our land 
which has been made a dearer and a brighter place by her 
poetry, her romance, and her genial humor. She will be 
welcomed joyfully by every nature which has profited by 
her pure teachings, and received her revelations — by every 
spirit which has been borne upward by her aspirations, or 
softened by the spring breath, the soft warmth and light of^ 
her love. 

To woman has the Swedish novelist spoken, and by wo- 
man must she be welcomed and honored here ; but to the 
men of America comes one whose very name should cause 
the blood to leap along their veins — he, the heart's brother 
of freemen all over the world — the patriot, prophet and 
soldier, the hero of the age — Kossuth, the Hungarian ! 

How will he be received here ? How will the deep, in- 
tense, yet mournful sympathy, the soul-felt admiration, the 
generous homage of the country find expression ? Not in 
parades and dinners, and public speeches, for Heaven's 
sake ! 

Would you feast and fete a man, on whose single heart is 
laid the dead crushing weight of a nation's sorrow — about 
whose spirit a nation's despair makes deep, perpetual night ? 

I know not how my countrymen will meet this glorious 
exile ; but were I a young man, with all the early love and 
fresh enthusiasm for liberty and heroism, I would bow reve- 
rently, and silently kiss his hand. Were I a pure and tried 
statesman, an honest patriot, I would fold him to my breast. 
Were I an old veteran, with the fire of freedom yet warm- 
ing the veins whose young blood flowed in her cause, I 
should wish to look on Kossuth and die ! 

Who can say this man has lived in vain ? Though 



274 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

it was not his to strike the shackles from his beloved land, 
till she should stand free and mighty before Heaven, has he 
not struggled and suffered for her ? Has he not spoken 
hallowed and immortal words — words which have gone forth 
to the nations, a power and a prophecy, which shall sound 
on and on, long after his troubled life is past — on and on, 
till their work is accomplished in great deeds — and the deeds 
become history, to be read by free men with quickened 
breath, and eyes that lighten with exultation ? And it is a 
great thing that Europe, darkened by superstition and 
crushed by despotism, has known another hero — a race of 
^heroes I might say, for the Hungarian uprising has been a 
startling and terrific spectacle for kings and emperors. And 
' the end is not yet.' There must be a sure, a terrible retri- 
bution for the oppressors, a yet more fearful finale to this 
world-witnessed tragedy. While the heavens endure, let us 
hold on to the faith that the right shall prevail against the 
v/rong ; when the last long struggle shall come, that the soul 
of freedom is imperishable, and shall triumph over all op- 
pressions on the face of the whole earth. 

Adieu. 



LETTER XVI. 



Lynn, Novembei* 8, 1849. 

1 HAVE been delayed on the seashore much longer than I 
anticipated in the early autumn, but shall probably soon take 
up my line of march westward and homeward. I am al- 
ready beginning to feel a little 'journey-proud' — that is, 
unsettled and restless, and quite indisposed to thought or 
exertion. Six or seven hundred miles, in the last of No- 
vember, by steamboat and railway, and stage-coach, taking 
the Alleghanies on my way — a nice little pleasure-trip, to 
be sure ! But through the days of that weary journey, 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 275 

loved voices will seem to call to me, and nearer, and nearer 
every night, shall seem to shine before me a cheerful light 
from the windows of my home. 

We have had terrible equinoctial storms ; which were 
something new to me, as my trans- Allcghanian experience 
embraced nothing of the kind. I never knew it rain with 
such passion and fury, and then the wind, the mad, mad 
wind, how it came raving and roaring, and rolling the stu- 
pendous waves far up the shelvy beach, and high up against 
the black rocks with a shock like thunder ! Nahant, it is 
said, was the scene of much grandeur and terrific beauty all 
through the storm. There were some wrecks along the 
coast, as you will have heard ; one where the suffering and 
loss of life were most frightful. 

The weather has cleared up beautifully ; it is rather cold, 
indeed, for the season. Our evenings are especially chilly, 
but our mornings are fine, and the mellow autumn sunshine 
lights up the dark hills and gorgeous forests most gloriously. 

I miss from the beach all the dashing turn-outs, gay eques- 
trians, moss-hunting young ladies, and shell-searching chil- 
dren of the fashionable Nahant season. I sometimes meet 
a solitary sportsman, with his dog and gun, but frequently I 
find myself quite alone with old Ocean, who discourses as 
grandly as though he had for his audience the entire upper 
ten of American aristocracy. 

But I must pause here, as my hour for riding has arrived, 
and my horse will soon be at the door. So au revoir. 

Back again after a ride as was a ride — back again as 
usual with invigorated nerves and exhilarated spirits ! It was 
nearly high tide when I reached the seaside, and there was 
only the least little strip of a beach visible, but the waves 
after the strong east wind of yesterday ran fast and high, 
the sweet south-west wind of this morning not having yet 
smoothed the angry face of the deep. The sunlight flashed 
and sparkled on the foaming surf with a dazzling, half- 
blinding brilliance — innumerable sea-birds were on the 



276 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

wing, and many an outward bound sail was gleaniing in the 
distance. Altogether the scene was passing fair and pleas- 
ant to look upon ; but my horse was restive, and delicate 
about wetting his fetlocks in the rising tide, and rather 
hurried me away. 

This morning, as usual, on reaching the beach, I threw a 
quick, involuntary glance over the broad expanse of waters 
to see if I might any where spy — the sea-serpent ; — but 
alas, not one gleam of his terrible mane, not one huge con- 
volution of his vast length met my eager, half-expectant 
gaze ! 

1 see that you are ' of little faith ' as regards sea-ser- 
pents in general, and the Nahant sea-serpent in particular ; 
but as for me, I am a firm believer, and am quite willing to 
dare all the small peltings of ridicule for the good cause. 

I base my belief principally on the universal good char- 
acter of Swampscot fishermen, from which class of citizens 
come most of the witnesses of his mighty snakeship's ac- 
tual existence and several revelations to mortal vision. I 
understand that very few about here doubt the recently de- 
posed evidence of the monster's last appearance near Na- 
hant beach. The Swampscot fishermen are a noble, honest 
set of men, almost incredibly fearless and daring. They 
have an exceedingly picturesque appearance in their bright, 
red flannel shirts, loose trowsers, caps or tarpaulins, and it is 
pleasant to see them going forth gaily in the morning, in their 
light, dancing boats, or returning at sunset, with the reward 
of the long day's persevering toll. They are said to be 
very true and generous toward one another — only emulous 
in acts of hardihood and heroism, in times of danger, tem- 
pest and shipwreck. 

Apropos of hardihood, I heard a remarkable instance of 
it the other day. It seems that Government is about to erect 
at the end of a dangerous reef on this coast, a light-house, 
which it is proposed to place on eight iron pillars, fifty feet 
high. Think what a lonely, drear, terrible situation through 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 277 

tempestuous autumn or bleak winter, in ' night and storm 
and darkness ! ' And yet many applications have already 
been made for the place of keeper. There is true courage 
and spirit — there is Yankee spunk for you. What will not 
a brave man dare, what fury of winds, what pelting of 
storms, what dark threatenings of angry deeps, to advance 
his fortunes and give bread and butter to an interesting 
family ! 

A course of lectures has just been commenced before the 
Lyceum of this town. There are some great names on the 
list of lecturers — such as Emerson, Whipple, Beecher, 
Horace Mann, Thomas Starr King, and Wendell Phillips. 
Henry Giles delivered the introductory lecture last night. 
He gave one of a course which he has lately been writing 
on ' The Agencies of Social Culture.' The" subject of this 
one was ' Books,' a noble theme, treated in a noble and 
masterly manner. ^Mr. Giles is the most admirable, the most 
impressive, the most irresistible lecturer I have ever heard. 
Wholly without intellectual arrogance, his opinions are yet 
decisions — his persuasion is power, and his thought has a 
live energy, a will, and a weight, warming and rousing and 
again subduing the mind of the listener. And yet his ge- 
nius does not constrain, but possesses us — does not compel, 
but impels us — does not drive, but cheers us on. It is not 
the wild flickering of a Will-o'-the Wisp, enticing and be- 
traying the feet of the follower into pathless wastes and 
mists, and quagmires — but a moving pillar of flame, with a 
clear and steady brilliance, lighting where it leads us on 
over safe though constantly ascending ground — the mountain 
paths of thought, the high places of the soul. This genial, 
companionable, democratic element of genius is most char- 
acteristic of, if not peculiar to this eloquent lecturer. There 
is, we all know, such a thing as a cold, irresponsible, intel- 
lectual despotism, which would subject our will and absorb 
our individuality — which respects neither mental indepen- 
dence nor moral rights, deals lightly with our most cher- 
24 



278 



GREENWOOD LEAVES. 



ished principles, and has no shadow of toleration for our 
prejudices — a despotism which rouses the antagonism of a 
strong mind, and brings a weak one into absolute subju- 
gation. 

How admirable, how beneficent, how liberal and demo- 
cratic is this modern form of conveying instruction and 
intellectual amusement through popular lectures, of giving 
voice and emphasis to silent thought, of sending home truth 
with a new impetus, through a ringing tone and a bold ges- 
ture — of radiating wit and humor from the changing face, 
from the lips' quick play, half anticipating the sarcasm and 
the jest — from the lit eye, as well as by the glowing words 
and high aspirings and' fair imaginings of genius. 

What direct, incalculable power is there in the actual pres- 
ence, the living voice, in the burning eye, the illuminated 
countenance of genius ! Authors, false in heart, and poor 
in virtue and honor, may sometimes pen sublime theories 
and pure moralities, deceive us with eloquent lies ; but the 
face of a true orator is Truth's own tablet — in his voice 
peals Freedom's own trumpet-tone, and in his very gesticu- 
lations are the native impulses, the force and vehemence of 
a roused and fiery spirit ; and a quick life, a hearty sin- 
cerity, a mighty energy, throb, and sound, and struggle in 
the words which leap at once into the hearer's heart, and 
abide there, not to sink into silence and slumber, but for a 
purpose and a work. 

The next lecture before the Lyceum, which is to be given 
by Mr. Whipple, the critic and essayist, is looked forward 
to with much interest. You have probably seen the volume 
of lectures lately published by this gentleman. A most ad- 
mirable book, is it not.? This author is one of the true 
glories of Boston. But a short time ago his genius was but 
a hope and a promise — now it is a pride and a fulfilment. 
And such large development of genius in so young a man 
is indeed wonderful, and the modern Athenians may well 
be pardoned a sort of complacent self-gratulation in pointing 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 279 

him out in their lyceums and reading-rooms, or beneath the 
shades of their Common, where he strolls, in close compan- 
ionship with wise and beneficent thoughts, as walked the 
ancient philosophers through the academic groves. In some 
things our youthful philosopher has the advantage of those 
sage old gentlemen. He is not bound to bear himself with 
a toga-ed and statuesque dignity — he has mirth and genial 
humor, as well as gravity and wisdom — he can laugh with 
the world as well as at it — can feel as well as think — can 
have pleasant relations with the human heart, as well as 
visitings from the divine mind — can be quite at home and 
comfortable in common life, after an occasional uplift into 
Olympian sublimities. 

Of this volume, the lectures on ' Genius,' and ' Intellec- 
tual Health and Disease,' are perhaps the finest ; but to me, 
that on '■ Authors,' and the one on ' Dickens,' are espe- 
cially delightful. Yet I have somewhat against this essayist, 
admirable as he is. To me it seems that some, indeed 
many of the anecdotes, puns and witticisms, introduced into 
these lectures, rather break the harmony of his style, than 
aid his argument by illustration. His thoughts are emi- 
nently lucid and direct, and need no such help and setting 
off. But perhaps these things were necessary to give light- 
ness and piquancy to a lecture which was to be delivered 
before a popular audience, though I can but think that the 
same article would read better without them. Yet, this is 
merely my opinion ; another reader might object to the 
absence of these same anecdotes, which are good in them- 
selves — possibly great favorites — certainly old acquaint- 
ances. 

The lecture on ' Genius ' seems most free from this — 
fault I will scarcely presume to call it — say peculiarity. 
This has a high and well sustained tone throughout ; is true 
and earnest in thought, beautiful and symmetrical in style. 
It may be that there is more bold, startling, and suggestive 
expression in the ' Wit and Humor,' but the ' Genius ' has 



280 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

a richer flow of eloquence, a calmer beauty, and a grander 
central idea. 

There are magnificent passages in ' Intellectual Health 
and Disease,' and among them I was glad and grateful in 
my heart to find, one in bold and scathing rebuke of Amer- 
ican slavery. The- writer speaks with the manliness of a 
freeman, if not with the fervor of a philanthropist. He 
does not weep and lament over the evils of Oppression — he 
derides its Folly, and execrates ' the brazen impudence of 
its Guilt.' 

It is a part of our author's philosophy, that wit and satire 
are the surest, keenest weapons of Freedom ; that stronger 
is he who can raise a laugh, than he who raises armies 
against the Oppressor ; that despotic States which have sur- 
vived fearful political earthquakes, will be in more serious 
danger from the convulsions of lawless popular merriment ; 
and that seats of power, which have withstood the roar of 
artillery, will shake and totter to the roar of a grand univer- 
sal cachination. 

And is not this true ? We may remonstrate and reason 
with or curse and rage against tyranny to all eternity, but 
if we pay it a sort of shuddering respect, evince a supersti- 
tious awe in the presence of that ' Mystery of iniquity,' 
it stands all the firmer, insolently defying Heaven, and re- 
morselessly desolating Earth. Pity and sorrow and con- 
science may plead in vain at the tyrant's breast, but the 
laugh of scorn, the bitter jest of irony, the sidelong glance 
of contempt, are as sharp daggers going home. 

Yours truly. 



LETTER XVII. 

New York, Noyember 30, 1849. 

The weather, since my arrival in town, though somewhat 
cold, has been very obligingly clear and sunny — a good 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 281 

light by which to see pictures, shop-windows, and gay prom- 
enaders. The pave of Broadway is resplendent, dazzling 
with its endless succession of brilliant winter costumes. In 
truth a splendid sight, though perhaps too suggestive of vain 
thoughts and carnal desires. Oh, great soul ! Oh, devout 
heart ! be thou blind to the waving of plumes and the flutter 
of ribbons — to the rich lights playing about the folds of 
velvets and satins ; the ostentatious comfort of furs ; the soft, 
seducing lustre of poplins ! Set thy face as a flint against 
the insinuating smiles of handsome young shopmen — make 
thine ear like unto an adder's towards voluble French 
milliners — be strong in thy resistance — be humble in thy 
desires — leave thy purse at home, and thou art safe. 

Condole with me — I have missed seeing Fredrika Bre- 
mer! The day I left Boston she made her exodus from 
Gotham — set out for Hartford for a brief visit to Mrs. 
Sigourney, from whence she goes to Boston, where she is 
to spend some time I believe. My friend. Miss Lynch, with 
whom Miss Bremer stayed some weeks, speaks of her illus- 
trious guest with much enthusiasm and affection. 

From what I hear, I should suppose the poor little woman 
was nearly killed with kindness while in New York — quite 
worn down and fagged out by visits, dinner-parties, and 
soirees^ and beset beyond all example by merciless auto- 
graph hunters. Now she must open a second campaign in 
Boston — soon a third in Philadelphia or Washington, and 
so on. Oh, Heaven save thee, Fredrika ! Keep thee from 
laying thy death at Yankee doors — thy bones so far from 
thy beloved Northland ! For the sake of hosts of readers, 
humanity, and the Howitts, take care of thyself ! 

I have lately had the pleasure of attending one of Miss 
Lynch's delightful Saturday evening re-unions, where I met 
many distinguished and agreeable persons — authors, artists, 
musicians, heroes, and exiled foreigners, moustached and 
melancholy. Among the latter was the Hungarian Envoy, 
a most interesting man, with his heart still alive and a-glow 
24* 



28^ GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

with patriotism and the true Magyar fire, amid all the chill 
and heaviness of disappointment and despair. I looked, 
with a strange, half-wondering interest, on the man who 
could call Kossuth ' friend,' for until then, it seems, I had 
regarded the grand Magyar chieftain more as an abstract 
divine idea of heroism and greatness, than as their live 
revelation, their human embodiment ; or as an actual, vis- 
ible, palpable flesh-and-blood existence. 

A rare pleasure was ours, that evening, in listening to the 
playing and singing of Mr. Richard Willis, the young com- 
poser and ardent musical enthusiast, who has but lately 
returned from Germany, where he has spent some years in 
study. His music seems mostly sad, thoughtful, and deli- 
cate, rather than dashing and stormy in character ; it is 
sweet, tender, earnest, yet full of spiritual meanings ; it is 
like Shelley's poetry. In singing, he does not startle and 
arouse as much as he impresses and subdues ; his tones are 
surcharged with feeling ; his heart trembles along his voice. 
Aside from this rare gift, which he has cultivated with tire- 
less devotion, Mr. Willis possesses yet another, that of song. 
He is a fine poet, and writes the words as well as the music 
of his delicious songs. What a beautiful and enviable duality 
of genius ! What a full and perfect expression is thus given 
to the sad and joyous emotions of the heart, to its dreams 
and loves, wild hopes and intense longings, and passionate 
regrets — to the restless play of fancy — to the swell and 
surging of free, strong thought — to all the deepest delights 
and divinest aspirations of the spirit ! 

There was also at the soiree, a young German pianist, 
whose name I will not attempt to write, who is said to 
possess great genius. His playing is surely wonderfully fine 
and most peculiar in its character. As I stood near him and 
watched his fingering, thus listening with the eye as well as 
ear, it did not seem to me that he so much evoked the music 
from the instrument before him, as bestowed it, in a royal 
largess, a golden shower of melody. The liquid tones 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 



283 



seemed dripping from his fingers, rather than leaping up 
from the keys at his quick, electric touch. It was very 
brilliant, yet, after all, we missed the audible heart-beatings, 
the tearful quality, the sweet human feeling, which had most 
charmed us in the music of the young American. 
I will finish this in Philadelphia. Till then, adieu. 



Philadelphia, December 5, 1849. 

No incident of any note occurred on the journey from 
New York. Yet stay — there was one, pleasant to me, 
though perhaps of no great importance to the public. As I 
left the boat for the cars, I met on the landing four magnifi- 
cent Newfoundland dogs ! They were the largest I had 
ever seen, entirely black, with faces full of intelligence, and 
the peculiar genial expression which characterizes that royal 
race. One of them so strongly resembled a favorite dog at 
home, that I paused involuntarily, and laid my arm over his 
neck. The noble creature turned his beautiful great eyes 
upon me, and recognizing a friend at once, by the unerring 
instincts of undegenerate dog-nature, leaned his head agains^ 
me, and kissed my hand with a grave gallantry becoming 
his stately presence. I could have taken ofi* my watch and 
given it for him then. But this was no place for buying 
and selling; I was obliged to hurry along, looking back 
mournfully and admiringly on the superb group — 

* A sight that made me grieve, 
And yet the sight was fair.' 

I was lately invited to visit in a family whose members 
were almost entirely unknown to me. On the morning of 
my arrival, I found myself in an elegant mansion, with 
rooms large and lofty, and somewhat cold. I felt, I know 
not what, of disappointment and apprehension. But, in 
passing along the hall, on being conducted to my room, a 



284 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

beautiful dog came bounding toward me. His very pres- 
ence was a cordial welcome, and brought with it a delicious 
sense of home-comfort. I accepted it as a sure promise of 
that genuine politeness, that high-bred kindness which after- 
ward made the days of my visit pass so swiftly and happily ; 
that visit of which I now retain only pleasant and grateful 
memories. Adieu. 



LETTER XVIII. 



New Brighton, Pa., January 9, 1850. 

My visit at Philadelphia was one succession of bright and 
pleasant scenes. I had returned after an absence of nearly 
two years, somewhat fearing that those dear friendships 
which had once made my happiness there, might have fallen 
away. But I found them still full of generous life — ripened, 
not withered. It was a harvest season to my heart. 

I have very distinct recollections of some paintings and 
statuary which I saw while I was in the city. One of my 
first visits was to the Hero and Leander of Steinhauser. 
The Leander is certainly beautiful above all praise, but the 
Hero hardly satisfied me. The upturned face of the lover 
is lit with the glow, the rapture of a divine love — a mighty, 
immortal passion. All warmth, all vitality, seem to have 
left his chilled and wearied frame, and to have flowed and 
crowded up into that glorious face. That pure and exult- 
ant light of joy, breaking up through the cold and the damp 
says — ' I have found my rest ! Here is my recompense, 
here is my exceeding great reward.' 

But Hero's reception of the bold swimmer impressed me 
as more sisterly than lover-like. There is much tenderness 
in her face and attitude, but it is not impassioned tenderness. 
She seems to have awaited him with the utmost calmness 
and patience, and though he comes through darkness, and 
cold, and flood, wearied nigh unto death, yet with the great 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 285 

love of a great soul leaping upward to his lips, she receives 
him tenderly indeed, but as calmly and properly as though 
he had come in his coach and four, journeying by easy 
stages, to do his wooing according to common forms and 
conventional usages. 

I have a little print from an English picture, the idea of 
which I like better. In this, Hero has hastened down to the 
very brink of the flood, and, with an impulse of truest wo- 
manly affection, is reaching out her slight arms to the help 
of her tired lover as he struggles up the shore. It may be 
said of the marble group, that its time is that succeeding the 
first enraptured meeting, when the eager expectancy, the 
moment of welcome, with its loving aharidon, had given 
place to the sense of safety, of possession, almost of repose. 
But to me. Hero seems, if not cold, comparatively insensible. 
Her nature is wanting in fire and strength, and, despite her 
name, she is not heroic. That breast was never ' shaken by 
a storm of sighs.' Those lips were never parted in keen, 
impatient expectation, or quivered with foolish griefs, and 
sweet, irrepressible emotion. Those eyes were never cast 
down in nameless dread, and strange, sudden shame, or up- 
turned in supplicating inquiry. That calm, clear brow was 
never weighed down by love's most royal crown, or shad- 
owed by its fears, or convulsed by its sharp anguish. That 
face, in all its gentleness and still beatitude, is one we would 
not have ' the winds of heaven visit too roughly ' — one to 
which we would ofTer up the perpetual homage of loving 
looks ; but it is scarcely in keeping with that grand trysting- 
place beneath the stars and the night-clouds, amid the winds 
and beside the flood. And she is no mate for the bold and 
venturous Leander, whose fiery heart kept off the chill of 
the waves, as he clove his way to her side, and who went 
back with her last kiss warm on his parted lips, and the 
touch of her hand yet lingering on his brow, upturned to the 
stars. 

There are also two other works by Steinhauser, in the 



286 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

city, which were new to me — 'The Fisher Boy,' and 
' Psyche.' These are beautiful beyond all praise. The 
expression of concentrated interest, of eager expectation, in 
the face of the boy, is wonderfully true to life ; and the 
great but patient sorrow of the immortal in bondage to mor- 
tality, expressed in the countenance of the Psyche, sinks to 
the heart of the gazer. 

Brackett, the American sculptor, has taken up his resi- 
dence in Philadelphia. I went several times to see his 
group of the ' Shipwrecked Mother and Child.' This, 
though still in plaster, is a work of rare merit. The 
principal figure is a woman in the prime and glory of 
her beauty. She lies on the rocks of the shore in a po- 
sition of exceeding grace, her head thrown backward, her 
right arm outstretched, and her left yet tenderly enfolding 
her dead babe. She has been denuded by the surf, though 
her night-dress is yet slightly attached to one arm, and 
lies beneath her. I suppose there was an artistic reason 
for this, but to me it seemed a beautiful thought of pity, 
this laying the soft folds of linen between her delicate 
shoulders and the hard, cold rock. The face is wonder- 
fully beautiful in the awful repose of death — a repose 
impossible to mistake for sleep. There is death in every 
hmb, in every muscle, in every line of that grand figure. 
There is something indescribably mournful and expressive 
in the fall of the head, and the drift of the long, wavy 
hair. Here alone were told the whole tragic story. To 
me, the pathos of this work was in the principal figure 
alone — I mean in the woman, apart from any motherly 
or wifely relations. The dead infant was a pitiful sight 
indeed, but the wreck was the going down into the deep of 
that fair woman-life, so richly freighted with mature and 
perfect loveliness. 

But, though mournful beyond what words may tell, there 
is a beautiful fitness in such a death, for one of God's most 
glorious creatures. There is grandeur in the thought, that 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 287 

such beauty, unwasted by disease and undarkened by sor- 
row, should yield itself to that ' mighty minister of Death,' 
the Sea. 

How meet a place for a form of such majesty to lie in 
state ! On the lone shore, with the stars for holy lights, and 
with the solemn requiem of winds and waves sounding 
around her rocky bier ! 

I once spent a twilight hour in gazing on this group. 
Then my imagination conjured up the doomed vessel, driv- 
ing on, and on before the tempest — the dash against the 
rocks — the parting of the timbers — then a white form on 
the wreck, clasping a babe to her bosom — her plunge into 
the midnight deep — the brief struggle with the flood — the 
last agony of the mother's heart — till those forms before 
me grew awfully human — were indeed a dead woman and 
her poor babe, cast up by the relenting waves, and lying 
there, so fearfully white and cold, with their still, damp 
faces upturned to a stormy sky ! The gathering darkness 
seemed shadows flung from overhanging rocks, and nothing 
was wanting to complete the sad illusion, but the roar of 
the far deep, the dash of the near surf, and the rush and 
howl of winds. 

I felt, when looking on this noble group, a patriotic pride 
in the fact that its creator was an American — a young 
man, self-taught, and one who has never even wintered in 
Italy. I earnestly hope that he may, ere long, be able to do 
himself justice and his country honor, by putting this his 
noblest work into marble. Mr. Brackett is as successful in 
the real as in the ideal. His busts are admirable. I was 
particularly struck by one of Longfellow, a perfect likeness ; 
and one, just finished, of the young poet, Boker — a fine 
intellectual head, and a face of Grecian beauty. 

I was much pleased with one of Winner's latest pictures 
— Christ hlessing little Children. There is every variety of 
infantine loveliness in those rosy, chubby, curly-headed little 
ones, who crowd about the Saviour with the almost divine 



288 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

instincts of childhood ; and of the group of young mothers 
— all are beautiful, with the richness and ripeness of East- 
ern beauty. But perhaps there is a little too much gor- 
geousness of attire, a display of oriental magnificence 
scarcely fitted to the scene. 

It is hardly to be supposed that such patrician dames 
would follow ' the meek and lowly Jesus,' to crave his 
blessing on their babes. We have hardly thought of the 
little ones themselves as young sprigs of Jewish aristocracy, 
pretty as angels, and delicate as fairies, but as the children 
of the poor — players by the wayside — sleepers in the sun- 
shine — swarthy and ragged little urchins, perhaps — born 
to hard fare and rough usage — small travellers on a rugged 
road, and so much the more needing that gracious benedic- 
tion which rested softly on their innocent brows, and en- 
tered into their unconscious spirits with a divine power and 
vitality never to fail or die out, but to bear them through 
temptation and want, to make them strong to struggle 
against the world, and patient in waiting and long endur- 
ance. 

Here the figure of Christ is divinely beautiful, if not quite 
divine. I was impressed with the countenance. True, it 
did not express pure power — power in the abstract ; it was 
more tender than majestic. Its divinity was that of love 
alone, but love in itself illimitable and omnipotent. That 
mild hazel eye seemed softened and brightened by memo- 
ries of His pure childhood, and about those lips seemed 
hovering the loving spirit of his human mother. It was an 
eye to attract little children, and the tenderness of those lips 
seemed to invite the young timid mother to draw near, and 
ask their benignant benedictions on th6 babe at her bosom. 

Adieu. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 289 



LETTER XIX. 

New Brighton, Jan. 22d, 1850. 

In your paper of the 19th, I notice a reply from Mr. 
Saxe, to a brief criticism of mine, of a Satire upon Lite- 
rary Women, contained in a witty poem from his pen, en- 
titled '•The Times^'' lately read before the Boston Literary 
Mercantile Association. 

The note which you publish is certainly written in an 
excellent spirit, and I feel not a little rebuked for the some- 
what sharp tone of my own article. I was doubtless too 
severe, perhaps too strong, for the slight occasion. I now 
believe that Mr. Saxe wrote lightly and carelessly, and that 
those passages which displeased me, and still displease me 
— those passages so unworthy the poet and the man — if 
taken literally and in earnest, are not the result of his set- 
tled thought ; do not indicate his habitual feeling. I simply 
take his word for this ; for I remember him as having a 
frank and manly face, an open brow, stamped with truth, as 
well as with intellect. 

At the time of my writing, I was feeling peculiarly sensi- 
tive in regard to my womanly, as well as literary position. 
The tone of the lectures of Mr. Dana had troubled and dis- 
couraged me. I said : ' If so speak and write our foets^ 
surely the age is on the backward line of march.' I had 
become impatient and indignant for my sex, thus lectured 
to, preached at, and satirized eternally. I had grown 
weary of hearing woman told that her sole business here, 
the highest, worthiest aims of her existence were to be 
loving, lovable, feminine ; to win thus a lover and a lord, 
whom she might glorify abroad, and make comfortable at 
home. 

We have had enough of this. Man is not best qualified 

to mark out woman's life-path. He knows, indeed, what he 

desires her to be, but he does not yet understand all that 

God and nature require of her. Woman should not be 

25 



290 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

made up of Jove alone ; the other attributes of her being 
should not be dwarfed, that this inay have a large, unnatural 
growth. Hers should be a distinct individuality — an inde- 
pendent moral existence — or, at least, the dependence 
should be mutual. Woman can best judge of woman, of her 
wants, capacities, aspirations and powers. She can best 
speak to her on the life of the affections, on the loves of her 
heart, on the peculiar joys and sorrows of her lot. She can 
best teach her to be true to herself — to her high nature, to 
her brave spirit — and then, indeed, shall she be constant in 
her love, and faithful to her duties, to all, even to the most 
humble. Woman can strengthen woman for the life of self- 
sacrifice, of devotion, of ministration, of much endurance, 
which lies before her. 

A woman of intellect and right feeling would never 
dream of pointing out the weak and unfilial Desdemona 
as an example to her sex in this age ; would never dare to 
hold up as ' our destined end and aim,' a one love, however 
romantic <ind poetical, which might be so selfishly sought, 
and so unscrupulously secured. 

Tharik Heaven, woman herself is awaking to a percep- 
tion of the causes which have hitherto impeded' her free 
and perfect development ; which have shut her out from 
the large experiences, the wealth and fullness of the life to 
which she was called. She is beginning to feel, and to cast 
off the bonds which oppress her; many of them, indeed, 
self-imposed, and many gilded and rarely wrought, covered 
with flowers and delicate tissues, but none the less bonds ; 
bonds upon the speech, upon the spirit, upon the life. 

There surely is a great truth involved in this question of 
' Woman's Rights,' and agitated as it may be, with wisdom 
and mildness, or with rashness and the bold, high spirit 
which shocks and startles at the first, good will come out of 
it eventually — great good — and the women of the next 
age will be the stronger and the freer, aye, and the happier, 
for the few brave spirits who now stand up fearlessly for 
unpopular truth against the world. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 



291 



I know that I expose myself to the charge of being im- 
feminine in feeling — of uUrais?n. Well, better that than 
conservatism, though conservatism were safer and more 
respectable. Senselessness is always safety, and a mummy 
is a thoroughly respectable personage. 

But to return to Mr. Saxe. Our poet satirized rather 
keenly literary women, as a class, in the poem on which I 
remarked, but afterward, in his communication to your 
paper, most politely intimates that he excepts me, as one of 
the ' women of real talent.' But I will not be excepted. I 
stand in the ranks, liable to all the penalties of the calling — 
exposed to the hot shot of satire, and the stinging arrows of 
ridicule. I will not be received as an exception, where full 
justice is not done to the class to which I belong. 

Suppose now, that T should write a poem, to deliver be- 
fore some ' Women's Rights Convention,' or ' Ladies' Lite- 
rary Association,' on ' The Times,' which should come 
down sharp and heavy on the literary men, of the day, for 
usurping the delicate employ by right and nature the peculiar 
province of woman, 'the weaker vessel' — for neglecting 
their shops, their fields, their counting-houses and their in- 
teresting families, and wasting their precious time in writing 
love-tales, 'doleful ditties,' and 'distressful strains,' for the 
magazines — for flirting with the muse, while their wives 
are wanting shoes — or perpetrating puns, while their chil- 
dren cry for ' buns ! ' Suppose that, pointing every line 
with wit, I should hold them up to contempt, as careless, 
improvident, lovers of pleasure, given to self-indulgence — 
taking their Helicon more than dashed with gin — seekers 
after notoriety, eccentric in their habits, and unmanly in 
all their tastes ! After this, should I very handsomely make 
an exception in favor of Mr. Saxe, would he feel compli- 
mented ? 

As far as I have known literary women, and as far as 
they have been made known to us in literary biography, the 
unwomanly and unamiable, the poor wives, and daughters. 



292 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

and sisters, have been the rare exceptions. I mean not alone 
' women of genius,' but would include those of mere talent — 
of mediocre talent even, devoted to letters as a profession, 
and who by their estimable characters and blameless lives 
are an honor to their calling. 

I believe that for one woman whom the pursuits of lit- 
erature, the ambition of authorship, and the love of fame 
have rendered unfit for home-life, a thousand have been 
made thoroughly undomestic by poor social strivings, the 
follies of fashion, and the intoxicating distinction which 
mere personal beauty confers. Adieu, 



LETTER XX. 

New Brighton, March, 1850. 

I HAVE been reading Browning much of late. This poet 
has been so little read in our country, as to be best known 
to many as the husband of Elizabeth Barrett, but abroad he 
has a higher distinction, a greatness which even hers cannot 
overshadow ; and there, he need not fear being pointed out 
* as the man whom Ninon married.' He is the one to whom 
Landor, in a most beautiful sonnet, paid that splendid com- 
pliment — 

' Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's ; 
Therefore, on him no speech ! and brief for thee, 
Browning ! ' 

One is almost afraid to venture a word, after that. 

This poet is, I believe, a great problem to the critics. 
One who would receive the high imaginings and divinations 
of genius by some direct and easy process, and through a 
clear and pleasant medium, would be perplexed and half- 
angered by~him at the first reading, at least. There is often 
about his poetry a dimness and a density which result from 
the depth of his thought and the affluence of his fancy. His 
darkest places are, after all, ' sun-dropped shades,' where 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 293 

the beauty is deeper and richer for the partial obscurity. 
His style is often singularly involved, dreamy and mystical ; 
but he is never meaningless. Sometimes, amid his most 
unformed and mystical language, comes a happy, lucid 
expression, a bright rift, a sudden revealing of heaven 
through clouds and shadows — verbal felicities, pleasant 
surprises of humor, delicious turns of sentiment, and soft 
yet masterly touches of pathos, which would summon smiles 
to. the sternest lip, or from the coldest and most philosophical 
heart roll away the stone which shuts down the fountain of 
tears. 

Browning has been called unmusical, and, judged by 
common rules, I suppose his verse lacks melody ; but for 
me, there is always in it a sort of spiritual harmony, which 
overrules the mere word-sound, and renders him one of the 
most musical of poets. 

For all Browning's power, and learning, and strongly 
marked peculiarities, much of his poetry seems to me of a 
most natural and primitive kind. It is simply poetic reverie, 
and given in the dreamy, diffuse, inexpressive language of 
reverie, every word obediently written down as it slid from 
the murmuring lips of his muse, without question and with^ 
out hesitation. In such, nothing is direct or connected, but 
all wandering and distracted, and the reader, to comprehend 
the poet, must, by some process, place himself in a similar 
somnambulatory state — must reverize with him, and go on 
weaving almost invisible threads of thought, through an 
infinitude of words. 

''Paracelsus'' is unreadable to the mass; but the enthusi- 
astic student receives it almost as a new revelation of poetry. 
Yet it is not a poem proper, neither is it a regular drama ; 
but a long, winding, subtle, sweet, and varied talk. It is 
full of grand conceptions, exquisite fancies — sometimes 
only given in luminous hints, startling intimations, and 
sometimes diffused and elaborated almost to weakness and 
folly. Now comes a stranger thought of giant proportions, 
25* 



294 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

almost undraped and wholly unadorned, followed by some 
little old friend of ours, wrapt about and overloaded by a 
new and gorgeous dress. Who can doubt but that this 
poem, peculiar, and in many passages powerful as it is, 
would be greatly bettered if compressed into half its present 
compass ? While our poet spreads his poetry over so wide 
an expanse, and while its waters are often so unfathomable 
or unclear, we think it will remain a luxury for the few. 
This is an age of preoccupation and hurry ; and not many 
of us can stay to study out the most solemn sounding of 
oracles, if given in an unknown tongue, or turn aside from 
direct and pleasant paths to explore wild forests, of however 
magnificent growth, into which open few clear and inviting 
vistas. ' Paracelsus,' and indeed most of the poetry of 
Browning, is to be studied, as we have said. And alas! the 
many do not study ; thus this poet can hardly be to them 
priest or interpreter. 

When Browning is awake, he is alive all over ; — witness 
some of his ' Dramatic Lyrics,' such as ' Cavalier Tunes,' 
' Count Gismond,' ' Incident in the French Camp,' ' How 
they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix.' 

I suppose that ' Paracelsus' is esteemed the most powerful 
work of Browning's genius, and is certainly very great, for 
the thought it embodies, and its many magnificent bursts of 
poetry. 

The most remarkable thing in it, in my estimation, is the 
beautiful allegorical poem introduced into Part IV., — 

' Over the sea our galleys went.' 

But I love most ' The Blot in the 'Scutcheon.' This is 
-a beautiful drama — rapid in action, clear and musical in 
language, and most touching and mournful in its story. It 
inculcates a heavenly lesson of charity, and displays a won- 
derful knowledge of the human heart — of woman's heart. 
I have read it many times, and always with intense admira- 
tion, with irrepressible tears. 'Paracelsus' and the like 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 295 

labored poems seem emanations alone from the large, 
unwieldy^ if such a term may be used, intellectuality of the 
poet ; but in the sweet and mournful story of Mildred and 
Mertoun beats his warm human heart. 

' Colombe's Birthday,' ' Pippa Passes,' and ' The Flight of 
the Duchess,' are also very fine, but I cannot say that I like 
'A Soul's Tragedy,' or the play, ' King Victor and King 
Charles.' The impression left by these is neither deep nor 
altogether pleasant. 

Yet Browning is a wonderful poet, though speaking 
oftener to our intellects than our hearts, — and here I come 
to remark upon the want which I perceive in him — a lack 
of ready sympathies with his age and his race. He is not a 
poet as Burns, and Goldsmith, and Shelley and Elliott, were 
poets — as Longfellow, and Lowell, and Whittier, are poets. 
We recognize in his poetry no earnest progressive spirit — 
no distinctness and intensity of purpose — no high, unselfish 
aim — in short, no consecration. He writes as he might 
write if man and the world had no need of him — if he 
stood alone in God's universe, and put forth his thoughts 
as a tree puts forth its leaves, in obedience to an inward 
necessity, and responsive to the call of nature. 

Thus sang the earliest poets, doubdess ; but the time has 
come when mightier influences from whhout must act upon 
the poet's mind, and holier obligations rest upon his spirit. 

All things now are put to use — and when the elements 
are brought into subjection, and made to loork., shall the 
poet, who is created from the two finer, refuse to labor with 
the laboring universe.? — refuse to be useful as well as 
ornamental .? 

The warrior-bards live no more, and God gives us no 
longer his holy prophets ; so it is that we now require of the 
poet more than they of old time — valor, heroism, and the 
rapt faith and far-reaching vision of prophecy. With the 
strength and earnestness which once swung the battle-axe 
and drove home the sword, his song must have that intense 



296 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

vitality, that divine fervor once borrowed from God's own 
altar. But the poet is not required to live so much in 
advance of his age, as to live out its highest and strongest 
life. While his spirit transcends that of his fellow-men, he 
must stand breast to breast with them, in all the common 
sympathies of our nature — in all the common sorrows of 
our lot. With the wants, and wrongs, and woes of his race 
crying to him in a thousand voices, oh, how can he mistake 
the work to which he was called ! — how can he rest, how 
can he trifle, how can he betray his trust ! 

The day of love-sonnets, madrigals, quaint conceits, 
dainty affectations, and small prettinesses having gone by, we 
demand in poetry, strength well directed, and a large, health- 
ful, and beneficent life. Though an ideal realm, inasmuch 
as truth and beauty are therein transfigured, yet profoundly 
real must it be in its adaptation to the world's great needs. 
Of old, the few danced to the gay measures of the poet, but 
now, the mass labor to his strong, inspiring strains ; thus he, 
however grand his genius, who fails to respond to this demo- 
cratic spirit in the literature of to-day, can never make his 
home in the hearts of the people. Adieu. 



LETTER XXI. 

There are a few books lying on my table, which should 
have received some notice long ere this, and if you will 
indulge me a little while, I will say my unofficial, and unau- 
thoritative say concerning them. 

Biographical Essays. By Thomas de Quincey. — This 
is a most readable volume ; not so luminously brilliant as 
' The Confessions of an Opium Eater,' and ' Suspiria de 
Profundis,' but still a very delightful work. De Quincey is 
a writer of much individuality and power — power which 
shows itself more in brief, glowing passages and grand out- 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 297 

bursts, than in evenness of style and sustainment of thought. 
His genius is often more feverish than vigorous in its action, 
as his finest imagery seems the vivid fancies and wild and 
startling conceptions of insanity. Yet these indications of 
a brain somewhat unhealthy and inflamed, so evident in 
' The Opium Eater,' may scarcely be remarked in the vol- 
ume before us. Here we have calm, critical, and admirably 
appreciative biographies of Shakspeare, Pope, Charles 
Lamb, Goethe, and Schiller. The paper upon Shakspeare 
has I believe been considered the finest, but I prefer the one 
on Charles Lamb, perhaps because the subject comes near- 
est to our human affections and sympathies. Shakspeare 
is the autocrat of the whole wide upper world of intellect — 
but down in the narrower and warmer region of the heart 
Lamb holds perpetual sovereignty — ruling by our free 
choice, not in state, but as playing at kingship, crowned 
with flowers, bearing a holly branch for a sceptre — a sort 
of merry, irresponsible home-monarch, who may ' call for 
his pipe and call for his bowl,' and have every thing his own 
way. Yet no less truly do we reverence Lamb than Shaks- 
peare, that our homage takes the forms of love and kindly 
indulgence, rather than of awe and unconditional loyalty. 
With Lamb, we may claim fellowship without presumption 
— his very weaknesses bring us nearer — his faults seem 
but childlike appeals to our sympathy ; but who shall dare 
to claim fellowship with that great, that almost universal 
intelligence, to whom seem to have been given the souls of 
a whole race, in a mass ! P faith, one would almost as soon 
think of laying claim to equality and fraternity with Saturn, 
or Jupiter, as with Shakspeare, moving in the far, high 
eternity of his fame. 

The articles upon Goethe and Schiller are also very fine. 
The latter of these great poets has always seemed to me far 
more human than the first. Between the genius of the two 
there seems all the difference that there is between a grand 
display of Northern lights and the clear, vivifying glow of 



298 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

southern sunlight; between the men, the difference there 
was between the Greek god, cold, irresponsible, self-cen- 
tered, holding himself apart amid Olympian grandeur — 
and the Greek hero, brave and passionate, leading the bold 
spirits and ruling the fiery hearts of his time. Goethe's 
genius was the more comprehensive, perhaps — that of 
Schiller was the more intense. If Goethe's was the higher 
intellect, Schiller's was the deeper heart. 

Tkue Stories from History and Biography. By Na- 
tlianiel HawtJiorne. — This is one of the pleasantest books 
of the season — quite at the head of the juvenile publica- 
tions. It is a collection of most interesting stories, told in 
a style simple and direct, yet singularly picturesque and 
poetical. It is beautiful to see how the genius of the 
author here comes forth from the temple of that art, with 
him a mystery and a worship — from its lofty arches, its 
resounding aisles, its grand harmonies and gorgeous glooms 
— comes out upon the open lawn to smile lovingly upon 
childhood, join in its innocent sports, and hold sweet com- 
munion with its fresh and simple spirit. Yet we should 
not wonder at this as a phenomenon, for it is truest nature. 
Genius should be but a large childhood, a perpetual renew- 
ing of life from its earliest and purest fountain, but a 
nobler growth, a sublimer expression of the innocent trust, 
and the clear-eyed truth which the infant soul gives forth in 
its first looks upon the world. It is said that in our life of 
change, freshness and bloom cannot endure forever, and 
we know that the fruits of knowledge attain to ripeness and 
sweetness through bitterness and acidity — but, while com- 
mon trees have their season of profuse flowering and 'then 
fling away their blooms and wait unadorned for the time of 
ripeness, the gorgeous tropical tree is at once budding and 
blossoming, breathing its sweetness toward heaven, and 
dropping its golden fruit to the earth. Such should be the 
type of genius — never stripped of verdure or discrowned of 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 299 

beauty; ever putting forth in fair and glowing forms, new 
manifestations of the primeval life, bearing the flush and 
freshness of feeling, side by side with the ripe results of 
experience. 

I have also been reading a volume to which I cannot do 
justice here, but of which I must speak. This contains the 
biography and the writings of the late Mrs. Mayo, formerly 
Sarah Edgarton — a fine poet and a most noble woman. 
Never in my reading, or in real life, have I met with a 
more exalted and lovable character. It has been a beauti- 
ful study to me to contemplate a spirit of such tranquil 
strength, such depths of purity, such childlike tenderness, 
such divine charity, such wondrous faith in God. 

Mrs. Mayo possessed genius of a high order ; but her 
early death, sadly for us, defeated its perfect development. 
Her few poems are not alone marked by great sweetness 
and purity, but by unusual vitality and power. I know of 
no woman of the age capable of writing a grander poem 
than hers on 'The Supremacy of God,' — or one of deeper 
meanings than her ballad of ' Udollo.' Yet no one can 
fully understand her poetry without knowing something of 
her personally — of the peculiar circumstances of her 
literary and private life. This knowledge may be gained 
through an interesting and touching biography, by her hus- 
band, and selections from her admirable letters, contained 
in the beautiful volume of which I have spoken. Here is 
told the simple but impressive story of an angelic spirit 
during its brief mortal bondage. While the morning dew 
yet lay on the fields of her earthly labor, before her heart 
had failed, or her hand grown weary, she heard the sum- 
mons of her Father, and yielding a meek obedience, she 
left us at that call, saying — ' I have work to do in 
heaven ! ' 

Oh, is it not blessed thus to go, — taking a fresh heart 
and an unwounded spirit into the life of the angels ! 

Adieu. 



300 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 



LETTER XXII. 

New Brighton, Juue 1st, 1850. 

1 KNOW that I owe you an apology for my long neglect 
of my duty as a correspondent. The truth is, that my mind 
this Spring has been in melancholy unison with the season — 
slow, cold and unproductive. I have never felt such an 
utter disinclination for all sorts of literary effort, even for 
what has usually seemed a mere recreation — letter-writing. 

Such a chill, changeable, tantalizing, aggravating, abom- 
inable Spring as we have had West of the. mountains ! It 
has been enough to touch the temper and task the patience 
of saints, if we had any such among us. It is now the 
first of June, and we are not yet able to dispense with fires. 
I am seated before one this morning, for the air is chill 
though the mocking sun shines overhead. When will the 
golden, glorious Summer come in reality, with all its fervid 
brightness and luxuriant bloom and verdure ? My heart is 
weary with waiting and sick with frequent disappointment. 
T am a very child in my impatience for the coming of rose- 
time. I am almost ready to tear open the shy, reluctant buds, 
so pertinaciously shut against the ungenial airs, as the warm 
hearts of the wise coldly close themselves when there is 
breathed around them the atmosphere of an unfriendly, 
though smiling presence. But I suppose — I have faith to 
believe that warm, even hot weather will come yet — some- 
time in August, perhaps. But it remains to be proved. We 
have had little rain, but severe frosts. That respectable, 
well-known and most reliable personage, ' the oldest inhabi- 
tant,' declares that there have been feio such seasons within 
his far-reaching recollection. 

But I for one am resolved to adopt Mahomet's policy, and 
£0 to the Summer if the Summer will not come to me. I 
think I shall be most likely to meet her in the Capital-city. 
Surely that must be a warm climate where the people are 
always in hot water. I think that the gallery of the Senate 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 301 

would be a comfortable place — right over the great govern- 
iiieiit engine, which is steaming and creaking and pulling 
and backing in desperate efforts to get over the Proviso- 
bar. 

My leaving home for six or eight months has now beccfme 
an old story. I fancy that it impresses my friends less than 
formerly. I think I shall somehow slide away and scarcely 
be missed. I did flatter myself, however, that there was an 
expression of dismay and apprehension in the handsome 
face of my dog Tom, when the other day he found me 
packing a trunk. It said most plainly to my eye — 'No 
more pleasant rambles — and an alarming reduction of my 
daily rations!' They tell me I am too indulgent — and 
that my favorite is getting fat and effeminate, and quite 
unfitted for field-service. Alas, the poor fellow will have 
time to grow lean, under the new regime^ and by much 
mourning for his lost mistress ; unless indeed, the theory of 
Sir John Falstaff is as true of dogs, as of men, and ' sigh- 
ing and grief shall add to, rather than diminish the weight 
and circumference of the unfortunate subject. 

I can't say that my approaching departure throws a shadow 
around my home. The lilacs have given over blooming, 
and the violets have a downcast look ; but I am scarcely 
vain enough to suppose it is for sorrow. There will be a 
flare-up with the peonies, and a general blow-out among the 
roses, but I will not say for indignation at the event referred 
to ; and as for the whole vulgar herd of weeds, I fancied, as 
I left the flower-garden this morning after my usual hour's 
work, that they nodded to one another pertly and joyfully, 
as though anticipating a jolly good time of it. 

Adieu. 

26 



302 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 



LETTER XXIIl. 



[letters from the capital to the PHILADELPHIA SATURDAY EVEN1^'G POST.j 

% Washington, June 15th, 1850- 

This is my first visit to Washington, and it was not witli- 
out emotion that I found myself in the gallery of the Senate 
Chamber, looking down on " the assembled wisdom of the 
nation" — to use a novel expression. Webster and Clay I 
had seen before, yet I should have singled them out, I think, 
had I not known them. The unapproachable grandeur of 
Webster's head — the imperious eye of Clay — the Wel- 
lingtonian front of Benton, who could mistake ? 

There was, that morning, an animated discussion on the 
Compromise Bill. Clay, Webster, Benton, Seward and 
Foote were among the speakers. Mr. Clay was suffering 
from recent indisposition, but he spoke with great energy 
and with keen flashings of his wonderful eye. It cannot be 
denied, however, that he oftener parried the attacks of his 
opponents with wit, than met them in argument. At one 
time, when Benton was thundering out a severe passage 
directed especially to him, he bent forward and placed his 
hand to his ear, in the attitude of listening, saying — 
* Speak a little louder ! ' But ere the close of the debate, 
this early morning coolness forsook the distinguished sena- 
tor — there were some keener passes between him and Ben- 
ton, and both the honorable and venerable senators seemed 
somewhat oblivious of the little proprieties naturally to be 
expected of such ' potent, grave, and reverend signiors.' 

Webster's manner in speaking had a sort of solemn heavi- 
ness, which may have been impressive, but which certainly 
was not inspiring. I was surprised to find Senator Foote a 
slight, genial-looking, elderly gentleman. I had supposed 
him to be a younger and a more fiery-visaged individual. 
He is a most restless statesman — seems afflicted with a 
sort of patriotic form of the dance St. Vitus — is on his feet 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 



303 



with every opportunity, pouring forth ' burning fluids ' of 
speech and inflammable gases of Southern democracy. In 
strong contrast was the calm, self-possessed Yankee cool- 
ness of Seward, who never moves from his positions, nor 
suffers himself to be ' riled ' in the least. Gen. Cass has a 
good, easy, uncle-ish appearance, and his face has a rather 
dull, after-dinner expression, not indicative of transcendent 
abilities, but which probably does him injustice. Senator 
Houston amuses me greatly as T look down upon him from 
the gallery. He sits at his desk and whittles diligently and 
deliberately by the hour, very much with the air and expres- 
sion of some worthy, complacent, stout, spectacled old lady 
at her knitting — pretty well satisfied with things in general, 
and thinking of nothing in particular. Now and then, he 
pauses to take a fresh piece of timber, or sharpen his knife, 
as said worthy old lady might pause to take up a stitch, or 
regale herself with a pinch of snuff*. Apropos of snuff", I 
perceive that most of the honorable Senators are up to 
that. A Whig may be seen passing his box to a Democrat, 
who passes it to a Southern ultraist, who passes it to a 
Northern ' incendiary' — and all three forget their sectional 
differences in a delightful concert of sternutation. No busi- 
ness is too grave, no speaker too eloquent to be ' sneezed 
at.' 

Mr. Clay has a peculiarly gracious manner of acknow- 
ledging snuff'-box courtesies, and a peculiarly graceful way 
of taking a pinch ; but I do not perceive that he sneezes 
more harmoniously than his humbler fellow-citizens. 

I suppose that beauty is not precisely the forte of the 
Senate of the United States — so trust I commit no offence 
when I say that a rotundity of figure slightly transcending 
the lines of grace and beauty, and a substantial, democratic 
plainness of feature constitute the prevailing style in that 
august assembly. The President, Mr. Fillmore, is a hand- 
some man, however, and Col. Benton is one of the most 
impressive men of the Senate in person, air, and manner. 



304 GREKNWOOD LEAVES. 

He looks the perfect embodiment of a great, inflexible, 
untiring will, the power of which one can only doubt 
when the eye is turned to the other side of the chamber, 
where sits his watchful, skilful, irresistible opponent, with 
the old fire of his wondrous intellect unquenched, and the 
old strength of his Napoleonic will unbroken. 

A most remarkable person is Mr. Soule, of Louisiana. 
His figure is rather slight, but firmly and finely formed — 
his face has a dark, dramatic style of beauty which lights 
up most splendidly and effectively when he speaks. His 
action is exceedingly graceful, and his voice melodious, 
though he speaks with a marked French accent. I like to 
look from him to his political and natural antipode, Mr. 
Hale, of New Hampshire. This Senator has the appear- 
ance of one who takes the world kindly and easily. He is 
rather stout in person, but looks vigorous and active. In 
the form of his head and the outline of his face, he is some- 
what like Napoleon, but the expression is more frank and 
genial. Personally he is, I hear, quite popular with all 
parties here, and politically he moves on in a straight and 
open course, not antagonistic in spirit, but most uncompro- 
mising in principle. 

Mr. Clemens, of Alabama, the youngest member of the 
Senate, and a gentleman quite well known of late for his 
unflattering estimate of Northern ladies, is one by himself — 
a decided individual. From the length and disposal of his 
locks, and a certain ornate style of dress, bordering on the 
flashy, I should say he was a gentleman likely to smoke 
vehemently, drive rapidly, and wear his hat with a one- 
sided inclination. 

Mr. Chase, of Ohio, makes a fine appearance, with his 
lofty figure and his noble, earnest face, but I have not 
heard him speak. Mr. Corwin has, as you well know, a 
head and face of great character. I hope 1 may yet listen 
to his peculiar and powerful oratory. 

The House, most of the time, is a strange scene of con- 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 305 

fusion. The Speaker, Mr. Cobb, is kept hard at work, call- 
ing honorable gentlemen to order and making decisions — 
pounding and expounding. His office is evidently no sine- 
cure, and his chair no easy seat for quiet meditation. 

In the gallery, I had the pleasure of seeing Horace Mann 
— one of my enthusiasms, aijd a most delightful person I 
found, — Mr. Giddings, a man as agreeable in manner as 
he is impressive in appearance, and strong in character — 
and one or two other gentlemen whose conversation more 
than reconciled me to losing the speaking on the floor, 
which, in my position, I found it impossible to hear. 
Charles Francis Adams was in the House. He is strikingly 
like his father, but shorter, I think, and with a colder eye. 
Horace Greeley was pointed out to me — a man of mark. 
I think one may safely venture that. 

I like Washington immensely. It is a pleasant, rambling, 
desultory, well-ventilated sort of a town — open to some 
objection on account of its ' magnificent distances,' perhaps, 
but delin-htful, for all that. Adieu. 



LETTER XXIV. 

Washington, June 20th, 1850. 

I BELIEVE that my visit to the President is next in order. 
As the levees are now over — I made a morning call, ac- 
companied by the member from my native district, Mr. Gott, 
of New York. We passed through the '• East room,' a truly 
magnificent apartment, and into the ' Blue room,' where 
the receptions take place. This apartment is handsomely 
furnished, but the profusion of gilding every where struck me 
as having a rather garish effect. What I most admired were 
some of the vases disposed about the room. We were soon 
joined by General Taylor, who came in with a pleasant, 
cordial manner, and with whom I at once fell into an easy, 
26* 



306 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

agreeable chat. I was entirely delighted with the old hero. 
In the first place, he is far better looking than I had ex- 
pected to find him, from all the hard-lined daguerreotypes, 
stifT lithographs, and rascally wood-cuts which had met my 
eye. He looks younger, slighter, more elegant and agree- 
able every way. His manner^and expression are altogether 
open and honest — dignified and soldierly, yet simple in 
the extreme. His voice is pleasant, his smile winning, his 
eye clear, earnest, and withal, benevolent. I like and honor 
him for his manly uprightness, most heartily. 

Passing through the grounds, we had the honor of being 
presented to no less a personage than ' Old VVhitey.' He is 
a fine, peculiar looking animal, with well shaped limbs, a 
well arched neck, and a spirited head. His eye struck me 
as singular — a light, clear blue, and his nostrils are bright 
pink in color, thin and ' finely cut ' — as magazine sketchers 
say. I pledge you my solemn word that I did not abstract 
a single silvery hair as a souvenir of this interview, though 
I laid my hand upon his mane, and had the opportunity of 
making considerable depredations. It is not often, I fear, 
that the veteran charger makes such hair-breadth escapes 
from his admiring visitors. 

I have visited the Senate and the House every morning 
since I last wrote. In the Senate there has been no great 
manifestation of late, but some fine debating. On Monday 
General Cass roused himself out of his usual sleepy quiet, 
and spoke some little time with spirit and earnest rapidity. 
But he unfortunately encountered Hale, who, in this instance, 
was hardly a ' fellow well met.' But both honorable Sena- 
tors were quite good-humored, though there was some sharp 
shooting between them. Yesterday Mr. Douglass, of Illi- 
nois, and Mr. Underwood, of Kentucky, spoke briefly, but 
well. Judge Underwood has a remarkakably fine face and 
a pleasing manner. Mr. Berrien, of Georgia, is distin- 
guished for his thoroughly gentlemanly manner ; if it be 
not treason to intimate that a gentlemanly manner is a dis- 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 307 

tinction in that high and honorable body, the Senate of the 
United States. As a truthful looker-on, I must say that 
there are some few in both houses of this Congress, on 
whom greatness sits awkwardly, and who sit awkwardly 
upon greatness — i. e., the honorable arm-chair of legisla- 
tion — some few who neither speak good English nor take 
good aim at their spittoons — in sooth, if they prove not 
better marksmen with the pistol, there were little danger in 
having unfortunate affairs carried out of the Senate — and 
some few there are who manifest a most determined disregard 
of spittoons altogether — perhaps looking upon their use as a 
sort of compromise with that spirit of anti-republican refine- 
ment, unworthy of and enervating to the bone and sinew of 
the land. In the House I have observed some members, 
desirous, probably, of distinguishing themselves as gentlemen 
of elevated understanding, an ambition which might possi- 
bly be baffled in another direction, coolly place their feet 
across the desk before them, and lean far back in their 
chairs, chewing diligently the pungent weed, and eschewing 
the proper and appointed receptacle for its rejected juices. 
And some there are who, wearied by the noise and strife of 
debate, assume a comfortable position, close their eyes on 
the troubled scene, and let legislation ' slide.' Yes, incredi- 
ble as it may sound, it is no less true that in this tremendous 
crisis, when the vast interests of the country are at stake, 
some of the people's servants doze at their posts. Let their 
constituents look to it, and at the next election administer 
anti-soporific pledges. 

June 21st. 

Was at the Capitol yesterday morning. In the Senate, 
Judge Berrien and Mr. Douglass spoke at length. Mr. 
Douglass is one of the youngest members of the Senate, 
and quite a remarkable man. As a speaker, he is clear 
and calm, but earnest and energetic. 

This much I will say for the Senate, that it improves on 



308 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

acquaintance — which remark I trust will be encouraging. 
I not only see more of strength and character in the appear- 
ance of the honorable Senators than at first, but more that 
is pleasing. The President, Mr. Fillmore, fulfills his duties 
in an admirable manner. His nice sense of delicacy and 
gentlemanly courtesy eminently fits him for his position. 
Mr. Badger, of North Carolina, pleasantly impresses one 
with his countenance and manner. The two Senators from 
New Jersey, Mr. Dayton and Mr. Miller, are decidedly fine- 
looking men, of a strong, truthful character of face. And 
then, there is Senator Foote, of Mississippi, whom I had 
supposed a fierce and roaring lion, ' going about seeking 
whom he might devour ' — or at best, a fox, with a fire- 
brand attachment, let loose amid the harvest-fields of his 
political opponents and conservative friends — but whom I 
find one of the kindest, most jovial-looking men in the Sen- 
ate ; one who though passionate in his demonstrations, and 
always extravagant in speaking, seems not ungenerous, or 
vindictively violent. 

But I know I am, in these letters, taking unusual liber- 
ties with this august body — making very free with their 
worships — and as I bend over from the gallery, with eye 
and ear on the qui vive for absurdities, incongruities, and 
all sorts of comicalities, it is to be feared that the great 
actors below must regard me as the reverse of ' the sweet 
little cherub that sits up aloft.' . 

But why should one be restrained by awe or reverence 
from having one's own, independent, careless, merry say, 
here as elsewhere? Are they not our servants after all, 
these mighty men of the nation — these Senatorial demi- 
gods ? N. B. Don't let your compositor mistake the above 
words for demagogues — a term which I would not be the 
first to even darkly insinuate could be applied to honorable 
Senators. 

Yesterday, on going into the House, I found a member 
from Alabama, in the agonies of oratory. His speech was 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 309 

a great effort — for so warm a day. Among many striking 
things, he said one which I have not yet ceased studying 
upon. It was — ' Mr. Chairman, if this bill passes, I shall 
envy that day in ?ny own existence when I voted for it.' 
Now, somehow that thought has got into my head sideways, 
and I am too sadly puzzled to appreciate its full force and 
beauty. In other words, I don't quite 'sense ' it. 

On Wednesday evening there was music by the Marine 
Band in the Capitol grounds where I had the pleasure of 
meeting some friends, and of seeing many of the beautiful 
women and lovely children, who are among the most attrac- 
tive distinctions of Washington. Adieu. 



LETTER XXV. 

Washington, June 29th, 1850, 

Monday and Tuesday, Mr. Soule addressed the Senate 
at length, on his amendment to the Compromise Bill. The 
exordium of his speech was, I should say, unfortunate. 
He indulged rather freely in censures and sarcasms on 
certain principles and sentiments prevailing throughout a 
large portion of his adopted country, and honestly and 
firmly advocated by some of the ablest and most honorable 
members of that Senate to which he has been exalted 
through the very spirit of liberty and toleration which he 
seems himself to disregard. He was not even complaisant 
and complimentary enough to call the sentiment of the 
North 'a mistaken philanthropy, doing more honor to the 
heart than the head,' but contemptuously pronounced it 
' a blind fanaticism.' 

The style of this speaker is dramatic in a high degree ; 
his attitudes are full of high-bred elegance and artistic 
grace, and some of his tones, looks and gestures, would 
have done honor to Talma. His is a peculiarly French 



310 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Style of speaking — brilliant and striking, but lacking, I 
think, some of the higher elements of oratory, though 
perhaps it hardly finds full scope on a question of this 
kind. Mr. Soule has neither the ponderous argument, and 
calm, luminous reasoning of Webster; nor the mighty will, 
now bold and imperious, now irresistibly persuasive, the 
inspiring, subduing eloquence of Clay ; nor yet the varied, 
powerful, impassioned oratory of Corwin. But, as I said, 
his speaking is dramatic^ and is better suited to the French 
Chamber of Deputies, than to a Senate whose members, in 
their honor be it said, are, with few exceptions, marked by 
true Anglo-Saxon simplicity, earnestness, and solidity. 
****** 

Thursday we listened to a long and most peculiar speech 
from the lately appointed successor to Mr. Calhoun. This 
was a powerful dose of the extremest South Carolina ultra- 
ism. The honorable Senator arose under the shadow of 
the greatness of his predecessor, feeling on his shoulders 
more the burden of his nullification, than the mantle of his 
inspiration. He seemed haunted by the shade of departed 
genius ; to fear that the spectre-eye was upon him, the 
spectre-ear listening for his words ; a groundless apprehen- 
sion, it is to be hoped, as the soul of the orator was just 
then, probably, anywhere else than in the Senate chamber. 

[ have heard, somewhere and at sometime, a little story of 
a certain blackbird, who, while leading a retired, pastoral 
life among the meadows and corn-fields, beheld one day, 
a gallant old eagle brought down by the swift shaft of a 
remorseless archer, from his eyry on a high, perilous peak, 
overlooking sea and land. When the blackbird saw that 
lofty place all vacant and desolate, he resolved he would 
ascend thither, and though he could not jill^ he would 
patriotically occupy the storm-tossed eyry, till the coming 
of another of the right regal race. The fable goes on 1o 
say that when there came on such tempests as were wont 
to call forth the loud, defying scream of the grand old eagle, 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 311 

then the blackbird, rising with ruffled feathers, would look 
forth boldly from his huge eyry, and do his best in a shrill, 
menacing whistle, which would pierce for a short space into 
the darkness and the tumult, there to be cried down by the 
winds, and drowned by the waves in their hoarse dashing. 
Yet it certainly was a brave and laudable effort on the part 
of the blackbird, to whistle at all under such circumstances. 
But pray pardon this long and utterly irrelevant digression. 

The new Senator from South Carolina was followed by 
General Foote of Mississippi, who gave us a fine specimen 
of his most passionate style, and Mr. Butler of South Caro- 
lina, whose manner of speaking I admire for its energy and 
clearness. Col. Davis of Mississippi, also spoke, at great 
length, and in a violent, unconciliatory spirit. During his 
speech, this belligerent statesman rather went out of his 
way to do up the letter-writers, some of whom, it seemed, 
had misrepresented him, but whom he, without discrimi- 
nation, and en masse^ denounced and defied. Looking up 
into the gallery, where sat the offenders, innocently twid- 
dling their pens, he seemed to regard them as a long line of 
literary Mexicans, opened a hot fire upon them, and gave 
no quarter. The next morning I fully expected to see that 
gallery cleared of the killed and wounded, but, on my soul, 
there they were again ! all sound and hearty, taking notes 
and recording votes. 

Have you any idea of the multitudinous amount of 
Generals, Colonels, Governors and Judges there are in this 
Congress ? I hardly know a man in either House who 
does not sport some military or civil title. They are not 
exactly ' all corporals,' but something higher up. Among 
the Generals of the Senate, with buff vest buttoned up to 
the chin, a-la-77iilitaire, sits the gallant Shields, with as 
many lives as a cat, and all nine devoted to the service of 
his country. One, to look on his genial face and erect 
figure, would hardly suppose he had ever fought so fiercely, 
or been so thoroughly riddled by the bullets of the enemy. 



312 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Near him sits General Greene of Rhode Island, ' a true- 
hearted man,' people tell me, and most certainly his frank, 
pleasant countenance bears them out in all such assertions. 
Among the ex-Governors is Gen. Dodge of Wisconsin, a 
right venerable Senator, with integrity written legibly on 
his calm, grave face. As a politician he is said to be 
thoroughly honest and independent. Next him sits his son, 
a Senator from Iowa ; but one would never guess the rela- 
tionship, as there is no sort of family likeness between the 
two. 

A few days since Colonel Fremont was pointed out to 
me, in the Senate Chamber. He stood leaning over the 
seat of his stately father-in-law, conversing with him, and 
in that position and at that distance I could not distinguish 
his features. But my heart beat the quicker at the very 
sight of the heroic adventurer. Friday evening I had a 
pleasant stroll with a pleasant friend through the Capitol 
grounds, a cool, shadowy, quiet and most beautiful place. 
We rested for a time upon a bench whose original dimen- 
sions had been reduced, and whose natural boundaries 
destroyed by a pertinacious process of whittling. The 
favorite seat of Senator Houston, perhaps. 

Two of the most distinguished women of the age, Fred- 
rika Bremer and Dorothea Dix, are now at Washington. 

Fredrika Bremer is the most natural and individual char- 
acter I have ever known. She is like no one in the wide 
world, I believe. There is in her nature all the charming 
varieties we find in the admirable women of her novels, and 
her transparent manner, her frank, earnest and lively con- 
versation reveal all to you when you come to know her. 
Phrenologists say that her head shows. a remarkable devel- 
opment of benevolence and of all the kindly and affectionate 
organs. A most harmonious working together of heart, 
brain and soul, does her life of goodness, beauty and useful- 
ness present. 

Dorothea Dix, that good genius, that ministering angel to 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 313 

the criminal and maniac, the outcast of earth and the stricken 
of God — is, as you would suppose, a woman of noble and 
prepossessing appearance. She is fair and slight, and looks 
but illy adapted physically for the life of self-sacrifice, en- 
durance and almost superhuman exertion to which she has 
consecrated herself. But her eye, though calm and mild and 
full of soft persuasion, also reveals the strength of a great 
soul — the wondrous magnetic power of a deep, inward life. 
She has a gentle, even-toned voice, and her manners are 
simple and winning, yet dignified and womanly. 

It is cheering and impressive to know of these two great 
types of womanhood, that their crowning distinction is good- 
ness, and the richer portion of their fame is love. Ah, we 
may know that this earth of ours is not left swinging away 
off here out of God's atmosphere, abandoned and forgotten, 
while such natures are sent to us, bearing the fullness of 
Heaven's life — and while we can receive and know the 
angelic visitants ; while all, the aged and the young, the 
lofty and the humble, the meek woman and the brave 
soldier, the little child and the great Statesman, " delight to 
do them honor.' Adieu. 



LETTER XXVI. 

Washington, July Gtli, 1850. 

The coming of the 4th has somewhat interrupted the pro- 
ceedings of Congress this week — national legislation giving 
way to national glorification. 

Saturday, Monday and Tuesday were principally taken up 
with speeches on the Compromise Bill, from Mr. Cooper of 
Pennsylvania, and Mr. Upham of Vermont. Mr. Cooper is 
rather an agreeable-looking man, and doubtless a man of high 
ability, but, as a speaker, he is dull, prolix and mechanical* 
His principles and prepossessions are said to point to the 
27 



314 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

Southern quarter of the political compass. Mr. Upham, on 
the contrary, is of. the North, Northy. His speech was 
true, I think, to the sentiment of his section of the country, 
but sounded as though written to order. He acknowledged, 
very naively and unnecessarily, that he prepared it three 
months ago — and he certainly read as though he had never 
looked at it since. His manner was without ardor or 
earnestness — cold and monotonous, and like Mr. Cooper's, 
his speech seemed stretching itself out to the crack of 
doom. By the way, a just subject for agitation and animad- 
version is the frightful prolixity of honorable gentlemen, 
who, having prepared speeches in the cool Spring weather, 
deliver them in the dog-days, with remorseless resolution, 
looking glum if their audience do not take it coolly. There 
rises a Northern statesman, who, with the desire of favoring 
some Southern policy, hath the fear of being cashiered by 
his constituents, and must steer slowly and carefully between 
Scylla and Chary bdis — or rather, like a circus-rider, must 
mount and manage two steeds at once ; or there a Southern 
alarmist croaks out the common-places of agitation — boring 
the Senate with his evil auguries on the fate of the Union. 
Honorable Senators read newspapers, frank letters, receive 
their pay and write receipts at their desks, fans, snuff- 
boxes, paragraphs and caricatures go round ; here are 
elevated a pair of slippered feet which may have done 
execution in an Alabama ball-room ; there is bowed a head, 
bald by the friction of many laurels ; nods and winks most 
mal-apropos and out of character, are on the increase, and 
yawns and stretchings grow frequent and contagious. Yet 
flows on, unceasing, the unheeded oratory — a drizzling 
stream of legal argument, or statistical statement, or a 
foaming current of patriotic sentiment, in a weak, wordy 
solution — bravado and balderdash for Buncombe. It is too 
much — there are bounds to human endurance — Senator 
after Senator rises with slow dignity from his arm-chair, and 
quietly * slopes ' through the northern door-way, for an 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 



315 



hour's siesta in the ante-room — the galleries grow unquiet, 
and thin off momently — even the gmcious smile of the 
handsome President grows languid, and his appealing glance 
calling to his seat some chair-it-ahle substitute, he yields the 
post of honor, with his own peculiar grace, and glides forth, 
smiling as he goes, benignantly to the last. Yet still flows 
on, unceasing, the unheeded oratory, in bewildering eddies 
of sophistical reasoning over shallows of thought, with now 
and then a small bubble of wit, or a soft gurgle of sentiment, 
and sometimes, though very rarely, of course, a slight nriud- 
diness of meaning. 

Mr. Bell, of Tennessee, has been ringing loud and sharp 
for two days, in the ears of the Senate, and will probably toll 
through the morning to-day. He is a fine speaker in some 
respects, but too fearfully diffuse, weakening all his strong 
points by repetition. He is most earnest and energetic at 
times, and wonderful is the power of his lungs, if not the 
force of his logic. An eloquent defence of the President 
and his policy formed an interesting portion of this inter- 
minable speech. 

The speech of Mr. Seward, of New York, delivered on 
Tuesday, w^as an admirable effort — strong, straight-forward, 
clear and condensed, yet not without the ornaments of true 
eloquence and poetry. The manner of this Senator does 
not correspond with his matter. His voice does not vary 
greatly, and he never seems powerfully excited, even when 
uttering the most radical sentiments. He is characterized 
by a quiet boldness, a cool, I had almost said a calculating 
audacity in the expression and support of his opinions. 

On the evening of the 3d, the ladies of the National 
Hotel held a reception. Miss Lynch seemed the presiding 
genius, and she was a host as well as a hostess in herself, 
in the ease, gaiety and' kindliness of her manner. Fred- 
rika of Sweden was also there — with her simple, retiring 
manner, her kind words and her sweet voice, making her- 
self /eZi as a presence of gentle greatness. Forms of manly 



316 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

beauty, faces of feminine loveliness, were around her that 
night, which the authoress may yet unconsciously reproduce 
in her vivid word-painting. Yes — we had ' fair women 
and brave men,' and some brave women and fair men. 
We had music, we had dancing ! Ay, honorable members, 
Senators, Judges and Generals chasseed and dos-a-dosed 
with belles and blues in blissful forgetfulness of all the 
cares and dignities of State. Immediately behind where I 
stood, sat the Vice President, Mr. Fillmore, in conversation 
with the heroic wife of the heroic Fremont, and I almost 
expected 'the Chair' to call us to order in his own bland 
and half-deprecating manner, when any thing went wrong in 
the dance. We had laughing and jesting over ices — we 
had tete-a-tetes in window-seats, and promenades along 
piazzas — all the usual concomitants of a pleasant evening 
party, except compliments and flirtations. Statesmen and 
authoresses of course know nothing of such things — and 
then, most of the company were married ! 

On the 4th, were the usual parades, ceremonies and 
festivities. Senator Foote delivered from the Washington 
Monument, an oration which has been much commended. 
It was brief, simple, and in passages, eloquent. It breathed 
a patriotic, a truly national spirit. I, for one, believe that 
Gen. Foote has an originally generous nature, and that the 
warmth of his heart can only be surpassed by the heat of 
his brain. Bold, impetuous, excitable and extravagant as 
he is, no one, not a political rival, or opponent, can know 
him personally without liking him — without feeling all 
bitter prejudices giving way before the happy good humor of 
his smile, the mischievous sparkle of his eye, the boyish 
restlessness and springy alertness of his manner and action. 
But then, his belligerent propensities — his quarrelling and 
duelling! How he ever stood still -long enough to be shot 
at, is a mystery to me ; and how any man could look into 
such a funny face and fire, is another. 

To return to the oration — I must not forget to record its 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 317 

great and peculiar distinction. It was the first Fourth of 
July address I had ever heard or read, heard of, or read of, 
having no quotation from, no allusion to the heroes, poets, 
orators and philosophers of Greece and Rome. I had 
supposed a general sort of pro tern resurrection of those old 
worthies a necessary part of the programme of our annual 
glorification. This forbearance was the more commendable, 
as the General's fine classical attainments place under his 
command a most effective brigade of able-bodied ancients. 

Mr. Clay bears up bravely against the extreme heat of the 
season, the wearying delays to which his favorite measure is 
subjected, and the opposition with which it is met by prom- 
inent representatives of both parties. North and South. He 
may be seen every morning at his post in the Senate, 
sitting quiet and erect, now and then turning to shake hands 
with a friend, smiling always as he does so, in his own 
illuminating way. He now speaks seldom and briefly, but 
his voice gives out still in its higher tones the same imperial 
or impassioned sound ; still belongs to its lower tones the 
old beguiling music. When in moments of excitement he 
rises to speak, and stands so firm and proud, with his eye 
all a-gleam, while his voice rings out clear and strong, it 
almost seems that his apparent physical debility was but a 
sort of Richelieu rusc^ and that the hot blood of youth was 
yet coursing through his veins, and the full vigor of man- 
hood yet strong in every limb. The wonderful old man ! 

Saturday, P M. 

Have just returned from the President's Grounds, where 
every Saturday evening is held one of the people's levees. 
It was a most animated and pleasant scene. We had fine 
music and many an agreeable chat with our friends. A 
lovelier sunset than that of to-night, I never beheld. At one 
time the air about us became perfectly golden — my white 
gloves and veil assumed the fashionable corn-color, and the 
complexion of the friend with whom I was conversing, grew 
27* 



318 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

alarmingly bilious ; but presently a soft pink light was shed 
over all, bringing a brilliant bloom to cheeks and lips, and 
alas, noses! heightening magically and sometimes comically 
the effect of dress. We laughed a little at a distinguished 
Western Senator, who somewhat prides himself on his 
republican simplicity and democratic plainness, for the 
exquisite dandyism of rose-colored pantaloons. 

The President was not visible — being out of health — a 
mere temporary indisposition it is to be hoped. 

Adieu. 



LETTER XXVII. 

Washington, July llth, 1850. 

I MUST write, this week, under a cloud of sadness, and 
with indescribable emotions of awe, bewilderment and grief. 
The death of our President, so utterly unlooked for as it 
was, over what spirit has it not cast shadows of gloom ? 
Who does not feel intense sympathy with the bereaved 
home-circle of the husband and the father — who does not 
feel that greatness and strength have gone from us in the 
departing of the hero and the patriot — who does not know 
a pang of genuine sorrow and a shock of apprehension at 
the sudden going out of that one life on which seemed to 
depend, at this period, so much of the glory and destiny of 
the nation ? What a momentous event ! — what a mysteri- 
ous and fearful manifestation of the power and providence 
of God ! It is in vain that we seek to pierce the thick cloud 
— to see the need and the purpose of this. We have but 
to fall back on a childlike and unquestioning faith in His 
wisdom and goodness ' who doeth all things well.' 

We were in the Senate Chamber on Tuesday morning, 
when Mr. Webster, in a voice like a deep-toned bell, and 
with the utmost solemnity of manner, announced the alarm- 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS, 319 

ing illness of the President, and moved an immediate 
adjournment. I never witnessed a scene of more impressive 
sadness. All that day we suffered great anxiety — accounts 
grew worse, and universal became the sorrow and alarm. 
At ten o'clock we heard that he was dying, and between 
eleven and twelve, by the slow tolling of the bell, far more 
mournful than any words, we knew that he was gone ! 

Yesterday we visited the Capitol to hear the official 
announcement of the death of General Taylor, and to 
witness the inauguration of the new President. The cere- 
mony took place in the Hall of the House of Representa- 
tives, the Senate and Heads of the Departments being 
present.^ I will not describe it, as you have already seen 
full accounts. I will only say that I was deeply impressed 
by its solemnity, brevity and simplicity. There was no 
form, no pomp, nor confusion, nor contending of factions — 
the most beautiful practical manifestation of the spirit of our 
Republican system, possible to behold. 

Mr. Fillmore bore himself nobly through all. He was 
greatly changed in appearance by the events of the last few 
hours. His face, usually so bright with the sunshine of a 
happy and generous nature, was now deeply shadowed by a 
sincere grief and a solemn sense of the immeasurable 
responsibilities so suddenly devolving upon him. 

As he stood calmly and gravely forth, as the highest 
representative of the power and the glory of a Government 
so vast and stupendous as ours, as he took its mighty care 
upon him, from many a heart, I am sure, as from mine, 
came the prayerful ejaculation — ' God be with him ! ' 

I will not, of course, presume to pronounce upon the 
political principles or executive abilities of the new Presi- 
dent, but if I may be allowed a purely womanly observa- 
tion, I would say that, in some respects, he is certainly 
peculiarly fitted to his new position. He will wear grace- 
fully the honors and dignities of that high station. The 
beauty of his person, the suavity and simple elegance of his 



320 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

manner, his conversational tact and talent, will all be matters 
of gratulation for us in the future. 

Mr. Fillmore looks the President and the gentleman, a 
great desideratum and a happy circumstance, after all. 

Saturday, July 13th. 

Have just returned from witnessing the passing of the 
funeral procession of President Taylor down the Avenue, 
from the White House to the Capitol. It was truly a most 
grand and melancholy pageant. The hearse, drawn by 
eight white horses, was exceedingly beautiful, with a gloomy 
magnificence of form and decoration — the triumphal car of 
death. One of the most touching sights, was the famous 
white war-horse of the dead hero, led next the hearse, 
caparisoned as of old, treading along lightly to the familiar 
music, arching his proud neck with the vanity native to his 
race, and all unconscious that he now followed to the still 
grave-rest, the kind master he had once borne so bravely 
through the loud rush of battle. 

At last the long, sad and splendid array passed by, and 
we turned homeward, feeling that all was indeed over. It 
is now night; — the muffled drum is no longer beating, 
the bells have ceased tolling, and the hot mouth of the 
cannon is silent. The shadows of the grave encompass the 
dead hero, but a heavier, colder darkness is gathered around 
the lives of those from whom he grieved to part — ' the 
friends who loved him.' 

In the Senate there has, of course, been little done during 
the paat week. Mr. Smith of Connecticut, finished his 
speech on Monday, and Mr. Butler of South Carolina, com- 
menced his on Tuesday. Of these two speakers, Mr. Butler 
is decidedly the most interesting. He always speaks in a 
clear, ringing voice, and with much earnestness of manner. 
He is a very singular looking person, and will arrest at once 
ihe attention of a visitor to the Senate. Though by no 
means an old man, he has a thick shock of perfectly white 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 321 

hair, commonly concealing his brow, beneath which gleam 
out more mockingly than fiercely, a pair of lively, sparkling, 
restless eyes. Mr. Butler's style of speaking is natural and 
impressive, without being remarkably graceful or brilliant. 
He is a strong champion of the South, but happily lacks the 
hot-headed violence of some of his compeers. 

The new President of the Senate, Mr. King of Alabama, 
is a gendeman of the old school — grave, precise and per- 
pendicular. He is unapproachably great on all points of 
order — absolutely without a rival in his knowledge of Sen- 
atorial etiquette, form and dignity, and is remarkable for a 
certain prim and spinster-like propriety of manner, dress 
and style of speaking, most unbending and undeviating. 

By the way, I perceive by divers newspaper paragraphs, 
that my Washington letters are failing to please entirely 
some few of my small parish of readers, both North and 
South. As a true Northern woman, I hesitate not to avow 
that my sympathies are with those men who truly represent 
and boldly advocate Northern principles, — but, at the same 
time, it is my sincere desire to do justice, as far as I may, 
to the talent and worth of their opponents. In writing for 
a neutral paper, I can fairly and properly do no less, I 
wish to do no more. Then, I suppose, I may as well frankly 
acknowledge that I am influenced, to a certain degree, by 
the observation of fine social qualities and personal agreea- 
bleness, and even tha-t I am woman enough to feel courtesies 
and kindnesses shown to myself. I would not accept, could 
I not acknowledge them. My prejudices can often thus 
be overcome or modified — my principles, thank Heaven, 
never. 

On the other hand, I have incurred the disapprobation of 
my Southern readers by simply doing justice to some of 
the prominent exponents of the principles and policy of the 
North. Ah, my friends, could you know how often I have 
refrained from speaking their praise, out of consideration 
for your delicate sensibilities ! — if you knew how much is 



322 GREENWOOD LEAVF.S. 

left unsaid, you would pardon what is said. Now, let us 
reason together. Is there not far too little of fairness and 
generosity shown by both Northern and Southern journalists 
and letter-writers in their doing up of th^ statesmen and 
legislators at the Capitol ? I met lately with a letter in 
some Southern journal, the writer of which, in describing 
the Senate, dwelt with rapturous admiration on such men 
as Soule, Butler, Foote and Davis, ringing for them all the 
changes of enthusiastic eulogy, but merely slurred over 
some of the ablest and most eminent Senators of the North, 
in a criticism as poor and false in spirit as it was flippant 
and bitter in tone. I would avoid all these things, and yet 
be truthful — that is, always speak the truth, if not the 
whole truth. My impressions of men and things here may 
not be invariably correct, but they are honestly and most 
good-humoredly given. The difficulty which one so situ- 
ated, finds in pleasing every body, often reminds me of the 
fable of the unfortunate old man, who, whether he rode or 
carried his donkey, was sure to incur the disapproval of 
his fellow-travellers. On the whole, I have concluded that 
the wisest and most comfortable way is to please yourself 
by doing just as you please. Adieu. 



LETTER XXVIII. 

Washington, July 20th, 1850. 

Monday, we had a great, though not a very long speech 
from Mr. Benton. It was a clear, condensed, a pointed and 
powerful argument, as you will perceive, though not so 
vividly, in the reading. In the manner of Mr. Benton there 
is often a fierce and terrible force. His sarcasm is keen 
and scathing, and his tones, looks and gestures barb and 
drive home his sharp and stinging words. He is a proud, 
stern, lordly and uncompromising speaker — always mani- 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 323 

festing a hearty and honest contempt for wordy patriotism 
and political blarney — all honeying and humbugging of 
constituents. 

He is no juggler, nor tumbler — no player with balls and 
feathers — he favors you with no tight-rope dancing, and 
throws you no somersets, but strides into the ring as a fierce 
and hardy gladiator, or a stout boxer, not to play, but to 
fight. He is always in earnest, always confident, and 
follows up an opponent with the sure unflagging, remorse- 
less eagerness of a blood-hound on the scent. 

It is surprising how mildly the speeches of Mr. Benton 
read, compared with their spoken effect. His manner is at 
times strikingly dramatic in its bitter, unmitigated severity ; 
and some of his tones are enough to chill one's blood, 
he is so cold and deliberate even in his passion. He does 
not board the enemy's ship with spike and brand, nor fire it 
with grenades, but crashes down upon it like some pon- 
derous and pitiless iceberg. In that portion of his late 
speech in which he made his exulting and merciless expose 
of what he pronounced the dishonest Compromise plot, 
grasping the bill, and holding it up as ' a criminal,' it was 
curious to mark the effect of his words and manner on the 
three great leaders opposed to him. 

A fire kindled in the wan cheek, and shot from the keen 
eye of Clay. Webster's sternest glances gleamed out from 
beneath the black ledge of his lowering brow; while the 
weighty countenance of Cass wore a shocked and mildly 
indignant expression, ' for self and partners,' seeming to say 
as the worthy Falstaff" would have said — ' How the world 
is given to lying! There live but three honest politicians 
in America, and one of them is fat and grows old.' 

Colonel Benton seems full of calm, determined energy 
and endurance. There is about him no sign of yielding or 
decay. The cold, steady look of his eye, and his thin, 
compressed lips, show an almost superhuman strength of 
will, patient, even more than vehement, unwearying, un- 



324 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

conquerable, ever renewing itself, and putting out some 
fresh manifestation of its vitality and its vigor. In personal 
intercourse, Mr. Benton is said to be, at times, exceedingly 
proud, distant and haughty. One reason for this may be 
that he is not always rightly approached. A proud man 
respects pride in another, and his occasional affability cer- 
tainly has the more meaning and effect that it is neither 
common nor assumed. 

On Wednesday, Mr. Webster spoke in favor of the Com- 
promise Bill. I then admired him greatly, but was by no 
means carried away by enthusiasm. The granite-like gran- 
deur of his head, the solemnity of his tones and manner, 
the severe beauty of his language, the symmetry of his 
style are certainly impressive, but not over-mastering or 
electrifying. Outward warmth and central force, intensity 
of feeling and earnestness of purpose, are too obviously 
Avanting. True, he seems serious in most that he says, but 
rather doggedly than deeply so. Even his wit is a sort of 
heavy and elephantine playfulness — his humorous sallies 
light up his own dark face but for an instant, and seldom 
call forth a genial and irresistible response. People laugh 
when Webster leads the way, from patriotic and party con- 
siderations. 

In the course of his speech, the distinguished statesman 
commented with almost annihilating contempt on the Wil- 
mot Proviso — stood there crying down the political ' thun- 
der,' once claimed as his peculiar property — like an old 
lion growling at the echo of his own roar. But the gall 
applauded, and his admirers will probably receive u.is 
speech as they receive all the words of the great leader, as 
manna from the seventh political heaven. By-the-bye, his 
enemies might say that his principles resemble the celestial 
food of the Israelites in another respect — are ' new every 
morning' — and in yet another — will not do to keep. 

Mr. Webster closed with a generous tribute to Massachu- 
setts, wherein Concord and Lexington -and Bunker Hill 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 325 

were alluded to with profound respect, the Monument highly 
complimented, and Plymouth Rock affectionately remem- 
bered. It was very fine and very eloquent, doubtless, but again 
those malicious enemies come in, to spoil one's relish for the 
grand and beautiful, by coolly and irreverently pronouncing 
it a piece of exalted and sublimated Buncombe. 

Mr. Hale followed Mr. Webster with a few remarks in 
reply to a portion of his speech, and made, as usual, a tine 
point and an admirable hit, somewhat to the annoyance of 
the venerable Senator, who evidently did not wish a quick- 
step struck up after his slow and stately march, nor care to 
have the solemn hush of an impressed auditory rudely bro- 
ken by the noise of laughter. A freshening influence and an 
arousing spirit in that atmosphere of dull policy and oppres- 
sive dignity, is the ever-ready wit, and the fearless yet 
good-humored freedom of Senator Hale. Whenever he 
rises with the promise of something bright and fresh dawn- 
ing in his face, every eye lights up with comical expecta- 
tion, — all are on the lookout for fun and satire, and none 
seem to enjoy it more than some of the victims, who can 
but admit that the operation, though severe, was performed 
with ' neatness and dispatch.' 

Mr. Hunter, of Virginia, spoke on Thursday. A very 
interesting speaker, and, at times, eloquent; he takes, on 
this question, the extreme Southern ground. His speech 
was followed by a lively debate between Mr. Foote, who 
was, as usual, worked up to the boiling point, Mr. Davis, 
of "^Mississippi, who spoke in a tone which was a singular 
mil? [ling of the military and the ministerial, and Mr. Butler, 
of South Carolina, who was even more than commonly 
animated, shaking his snowy head, his quick, fiery eyes 
gleaming out from behind his wild overhanging locks, like 
those of an angered buffalo. 

Friday morning was mostly taken up by brief speeches 
from Mr. King, Judge Berrien, and Mr. Clay. The first 
strikes one as a practical, methodical, common-sensical sort 
28 



326 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

of a man, one whose spinal uprightness may be but the 
outward type of an unbending and honest character. Mr. 
Berrien has evidently an opinion of his own, but he 'draws 
it rather mild.' Mr. Clay spoke with earnest eloquence, and 
was listened to with eager interest. 

In looking down upon the Senate, one is immediately 
struck by the prevailing baldness, not of style, but of head. 
It puzzles me to account for this. With Mississippi's excita- 
ble Senator it may be the effect of the vigorous working of 
his hot and restless brain ; yet on the opposite side of the 
Chamber sits a Senator who takes the world more easily, 
says little, and that quietly, but over the glassy and shining 
expanse of whose cranium adventurous flies vainly attempt 
to cross on foot. And many more there are of whom it 
might be said, that were the growth of hair the measure of 
intellectual and political abilities, as according to the Sam- 
sonian theory it is of physical power, they would hardly be 
found to muster great strength at the polls. 

Visitors are also apt to notice some peculiarities of sena- 
torial pronunciation, which are rather odd. For instance, 
Mr. Clay says, and indeed many of the Southern members, 
say ' whar'' and ' thar.'' Mr. Webster says ' indi-vid-oo-aV 
and ' natur,'^ and one of the Texas Senators says ' bust ' 
for burst. All I can say is, I hope such pronunciations 
may continue to be exclusively and purely parliamentary. 
Another thing we notice is the extreme humility of all 
that honorable body. Each modestly styles himself the 
' humblest member,' and there seems quite an amiable 
strife for the occupancy of the lowest seat in the synagogue. 
But again it is said by the irreverent, that the distinguished 
gentlemen, like the Uriah Heep of Dickens, carry humility 
in their talk, to a suspicious and fanatical extreme — in other 
words, rather run that commendable and pious virtue into 
the ground. 

And now I have a spicy little bit of scandal for your ear 
alone. Mind, I don't indorse it, so it must go no farther. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 327 

Some of the honorable Senators while making speeches of 
unusual length, are observed to drink frequently, quite 
frequently, I should say. Well, there are those who declare 
that the draught provided for the speakers, which looks so 
limpid and innocent to the unsophisticated and uninitiated, is 
not alas, of that primitive fluid which was Adam's early 
drink and Eve's first looking-glass, — they say that the 
flights of said orators should be poetic, even Byronic, inas- 
much as they drink from what was too often the fount of 
Byron's inspiration — that, in short, the water is only swal- 
lowed by the audience, the speaker swallowing an equally 
colorless fluid, which is — I really don't believe the story 
myself — which is — your ear a little closer ! — which is — 
gin a Shocking, is it not ? But as I said, I cannot credit 
it altogether, for a while since, when an honorable Senator 
who had been accused of thus infusing spirit into his oratory, 
was on the second or third day of his speech, I observed 
him narrowly, and saw brought to him a reviving beverage 
which was somewhat colored — say about the hue of Mo- 
nongahela or champagne. It certainly was not gin^ so the 
slander falls to the ground. 

They promise us that early next week the Omnibus Bill 
sJiall be disposed of. However the actors may feel, we 
lookers-on are about in the state of the affectionate husband 
whose wife lingered long in a decline, and who having often 
been called from his work on false alarms of her ap- 
proaching dissolution, finally expressed the meek wish that 
'Betsey might get well, or — something.'* 

Adieu. 



LETTER XXIX. « 

Washington, July 25t.h, 1850. 

As you have seen by the daily reports, nothing of im- 
portance as regards the great Compromise measure has 



328 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

been done thus far, this week, and little of moment has been 
said in its favor, with the exception of the great speech of 
Mr. Clay on Monday. This was indeed a magnificent effort. 
At his advanced age, to be able to stand up and speak so 
eloquently and so powerfully for three hours of an oppres- 
sively hot day, proves the Kentucky statesman to be one of 
the wonders of our time and country. 

There were some exceedingly fine passages in that speech, 
and some which hardly struck one as very happy. That 
portion referring to Mr. Rhett, and his late ' treasonable ' 
course, the reply to Mr. Barnwell, who rushed into the 
lion's mouth with a fool-hardiness absolutely appalling, 
and the bold rebuke of Southern ultraism, were grand 
exhibitions of power and spirit. But the lie direct given 
to the grave and dignified Senator from Massachusetts, 
' Honest John Davis ' — and the subsequent severe and dic- 
tatorial lecture which he read that gentleman, surprised 
and shocked many, and must have offended some of his 
audience. Then there was one particular passage intended 
evidently to be very touching and effective, but which was 
rather a failure ; that in which the venerable father of the 
Compromise solemnly warned the Senators of serious do- 
mestic consequences should they return to their patriotic 
wives after having voted against that measure — a mild and 
melancholy suggestion of Caudle welcomes and curtain lec- 
tures awaiting the transgressors. This picture, though vivid, 
and perhaps full of meaning to such Senators as had wives 
especially friendly to Mr. Clay and his policy, was some- 
what ludicrous to others — a smile passed round the Senate 
Chamber. The sentimental is not Mr. Clay's forte. 

In the manner and voice of Mr. Clay is the greatest 
display of his power. As literary compositions his speeches 
do not compare fatprably with those of Mr. Webster, they 
do not read so finely, but they are infinitely more effective 
when spoken. The illuminative glow of his face, the pride 
of his attitudes, the force of his gestures, the passion of his 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 329 

tones, his quick wit, his tact, his persuasion and his flsSteries, 
managed as they usually are with consummate address, 
carry all before him — at least for the time. His auditory 
seemed charmed by his voice, swayed by his will, and 
overmastered by his eloquence. Whether the effect is really 
deep and lasting — whether he really moulds and creates 
public sentiment, I am not politician enough to decide. 

We have had rather dull times since the effort of Mr. 
Clay, but some little excitement and light skirmishing. 
Mr. Benton has been up two or three times, speaking in 
his own strong and mercilessly satirical style. Mr. Rusk 
has given us a most alarming speech on the rights and 
wrongs of Texas. It was curious and significant to observe 
that while he talked of an appeal to arms, — of danger and 
devastation, fire and sword, blood and blunderbusses, near 
him sat his gallant and illustrious colleague, quietly pursuing 
his favorite amusement, whittling away coolly and com- 
posedly — as the imperial violinist kept up the music while 
Rome was burning. 

I leave Washington to-morrow morning — so, after all, I 
am not to be in at the death, or witness the triumph of this 
famous bill, which has called forth so vast, such an im- 
measurable amount of senatorial and editorial thunder — 
which must die hard, after a long agony, or through much 
tribulation enter into the laws of the land. It is most evident 
that the heart of Mr. Clay is bound up with this measure — 
it is even feared that his energies, his very life, would die 
out, or be laid on the table with it ; for it is his last object, 
hope and pride, the child of his old age, his Benjamin. 

During my visits to the Capitol, I have spent less time in 
the House than I expected. There has been little going on 
there of general interest. I was seldom able to get the run 
of the debates — the House itself seemed a discursive and 
a disorderly, rather than a deliberative body, a place where 
all policies and political parties seem in a state of fusion and 
confusion. There seems a sad want of harmony in action, a 
28* 



330 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

lack df leadership among the members ; but there is much 
individual independence and force of character. They are 
evidently an undrivable, and we must hope also an unbribable 
set of men. They have not, it is true, the dignity, the repose, 
or the aristocratic tendencies of the Senate, where one is 
often shocked out of a severe republican simplicity by such 
expressions as ' the very distinguished and honorable Senator 
from Massachusetts,' or ' the Right Honorable Senator from 
Kentucky.' 

I have had a time of much pleasure, and I hope some 
profit, in Washington. It is hardly the season for visiting, 
and I suppose I have seen less of the society of the city than 
I should see, could I visit there in the winter. But I have 
nevertheless received much kindly attention, for which I 
have to thank my new-found friends. 

Adieu. 



LETTER XXX. 

Lynn, Mass. Oct 12, 1850. 

This morning I must write you a brief letter on the 
one great subject of the day — Jenny Lind. I attended 
the charity concert given by her on Thursday evening last, 
and my simple inartistic impressions of the singer, you will 
take for what they are worth. 

The first entrance of Jenny Lind was made with a pecu- 
liar and attractive grace, half modest shyness, half affec- 
tionate confidence. Her smile was very sweet and winning, 
though it passed rapidly. She had more beauty than I had 
been led to expect, not of features, or complexion, but her 
face is a gloriously expressive one, and the tout ensemble of 
her presence is indescribably pleasing. You may be sur- 
prised, knowing me to be the reverse of tranquil and self- 
possessed, when I tell you that I did not become greatly 
excited once during the evening. I was deeply impressed, 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 331 

rapt, subdued, charmed into a breathless silence more 
than once, but not wrought up into an ecstasy, or thrown 
into a delirium of delight. Truffi, with her passionate sing- 
ing and acting, has excited me more powerfully. 

M'lle Lind first sang an air from the Oratorio of ' Elijah ' 
— ' If with all your hearts.' This, it was said, was hardly 
calculated to display the peculiar power of her voice, but it 
was surely very grand as an expression of her soul. Here 
it was no merely pretty phrase, but seemed the simple 
truth to say, that she sang like an angel. The very light of 
heaven seemed resting on her upturned brow, and beaming 
from her deep, blue eyes. While she sang — '• If loith all 
your hearts ye truly seek me, ye shall ever surely find me^ — 
she looked the angel-presentment of that beautiful promise 
of God ; and when — ' Oh, that I knew where I might find 
Him, that I might ever com^ before His presence'' — she 
seemed the impersonation of mortal prayer, waiting on the 
grace of the Father, and meekly inquiring the way into 
His presence. 

I remember Jenny Lind by this recitative more than by 
any thing else which she sang, though the songs which fol- 
lowed were far more brilliant. I remember her sweet face 
with that light of adoration upon it. So it has come to me 
since, in moments of thought and stillness, so it shines 
upon me at night, so it will ever remain with me, when 
the last faint echo of her glorious voice has died upon the 
ear of my spirit. 

M'lle Lind sang another sacred air, from the German, in 
the same Madonna-like manner — next that beautiful cava- 
tina from La Somnamhula — ' Come per me Sereno."* This 
was magnificent beyond what words of mine may describe. 
It was the sweet, exulting, and triumphant utterance of love 
and joy. ' The Invitation to the Dance,' a Dalecarlian 
Melody, and the Swedish Mountaineer's Song, concluded 
the evening. In these M'lle Lind accompanied herself on 
the piano, in a most charming manner. The first was a 



332 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

wild, free, dashing melody, and, while singing it, Jenny- 
looked the very soul of mirth and mischief. Ah, how her 
blue eyes sparkled, how her white teeth gleamed, and 
her red lip curled, how arch was the toss of her head, and 
how her hands frolicked over the keys ! In the last song, 
there was introduced a most wonderful vocal imitation of 
the notes of a horn, dying away in the distance. This you 
must yourself hear before you can have any idea of it. It 
is certainly very marvellous and delicious, but does not 
touch any deeper feeling than a sort of childish delight. It 
strongly strikes me that Jenny Lind's greatest power is in 
sacred music. In these wild, thrilling melodies, wonderful 
and electrifying as they are, her voice is but the lark, soaring 
upward and upward, till it almost reaches the golden gates; 
while in sacred music it seems to come down to us from heaven 
— a portion of that immorta], harmony which swells about 
God's throne, the utterance of angelic joy and adoration. 
I believe that Jenny herself has a deeper delight in this style 
of singing into which she seems to throw her whole soul, than 
in those wonderful vocal exercises, those exquisite feats 
of ventriloquism, which, at the best, but astonish and flatter 
the ear, exciting a curious and transient admiration, some- 
times taking you off your feet, but never setting you up 
higher than you stood before. 

On the night that I saw her, M'lle Lind's manner was 
said to be more serious and subdued than usual. During 
the first of the evening, I thought it more than serious, even 
sad. The shadow of some great care seemed every now 
and then to be resting on her fair, womanly brow, and 
some unspeakable trouble seemed to have half darkened the 
pleasant light of her eyes. I fancied that the barrier was 
very slight that kept back a passionate gush of tears ; that 
standing though she was in the midst of a multitude, the 
bountiful giver of great delight, she was sick and lonely at 
heart ; that the bright lips through which flowed waves of 
delicious sound, drooped from inward sorrow, from weari- 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 333 

ness with her life of brilliant toil and splendid bondage. I 
felt all this, and with the impression came an intense sym- 
pathy with the woman, surpassing even my admiration for 
the singer. Grand and glorious as she is — the hope of 
thousands, the idol of the world, in her woman's heart there 
are wants, fond, but imperious, which power and praise and 
adoration cannot satisfy — in her woman's heart there are, 
there must be, sorrows ' with which the stranger intermed- 
dleth not.' There are seasons when even a great soul like 
hers, must bow beneath the weight of mortal weariness — 
a bright soul like hers, pass through storm and shadow, 
and see no rest on all the earth, no light in all the heaven. 

I think that we should oftener consider these things in 
reference to the singer, and not look upon her, as we too 
frequently do, as a mere sweet-voiced minister to our pleas- 
ure, a soulless artiste, a sort of musical automaton. For, 
with the peculiar organization which renders her a great 
singer, she is more perilously endowed with passion and 
sensibility, demands larger sympathies, and needs to be 
more tenderly regarded than other women. But from her 
position, she often seems to the world indifferent and self- 
sustained, if not proud and repellant ; she does not ask its 
sympathy in words, she would breathe it in from the at- 
mosphere which surrounds her, and give it forth again in 
glad, deep harmonies, through which we may almost hear 
the warm, high throbbings of her grateful heart. 

I have little fear, that after having Jenny and her satel- 
lites with you a day or two, you will laugh at our furor. 
Or if you have ' no music in your souls,' or even, if like 
Aunt Betsey Trotwood, you resolutely stop your ears with 
jeweller's cotton, if you only look on Jenny ^ I defy you to 
resist the freshness, the naturalness, the pure womanliness 
of her presence. •. Adieu. 



334 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 



LETTER XXXI. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ERA. 

Boston, Nov. 12th, 1850. 

The universal excitement, on the Fugitive Slave bill, still 
continues ; and this is well. The great Northern heart is 
awakened at last. You may feel and hear its live pulsations, 
full and warm and vigorous as in the brave old time. The 
clergy of Massachusetts, as far as I can learn, are, with 
some sad exceptions, taking strong ground against this 
measure. It would seem that every true minister of Jesus, 
wherever he might be, if ' remembering those in bonds as 
bound with them,' must denounce it boldly and utterly, even 
at the risk of giving mortal offence to his beloved charge, 
and of being called upon to make a hasty Hegira from his 
parish. Our minister at Lynn, Mr. Shackford, has preached 
upon this subject with eloquence and power. He gave us 
the honest convictions and indignant protestations of the 
man, with all fearlessness, but with the calm fervor and 
deep religious faith which ever characterize his preaching. 
He is not frenzied or despairing at the temporary triumph of 
wrong. He sees that it is not a new creation, nor even a 
larger growth, but only a plainer revelation of the great 
national evil, thrown to the surface by the working and 
upheaving of the eternal principle of good. And how far 
better thus — on the hidden reef the ship strikes. 

Mr. Parker's Sermon on Conscience you have probably 
seen. It is a succession of bold Herculean strokes, which 
must have told on the heart of every hearer. It was one 
of those impassioned, startling, almost terrifying appeals, so 
needed to stay the decline and fall of the moral sense of our 
age. 

On Tuesday evening last, Charles.- Sumner delivered a 
magnificent Free Soil speech in Faneuil Hall. I hope you 
may yet read it, though your pleasure must necessarily be 
imperfect without the deep, impressive voice, which, in its 



SELECTIONS PROM LETTERS. 335 

* sea-like volume,' rolled the thought over one, and the 
action of the orator, always forcible, at times singularly fine, 
and in the best sense dramatic. 

In the way of literary intelligence, I have little to com- 
municate. The season of lectures is just commencing. I 
listened this morning to one on poetry, by Mr. Scherb, a 
young German of true genius. He is a strong thinker, and 
has the utmost boldness and originality of expression. He 
speaks much of the time in a perfect passion of enthusiasm. 
He now seems rapt, possessed, borne away with his subject, 
and now he wrestles and agonizes with some mighty 
thought or unutterable aspiration. He speaks our language 
with correctness, and often with singular force, yet there 
are times when he pauses, as though momentarily de- 
spairing of the power of words, and lets the strong play of 
his lips, the flame in his eye, and the passion working in all 
his frame, speak for him, as they can speak with a dramatic 
effect almost startling. You cannot stand against him — he 
dashes against you, surges about you, and overflows you 
with the irresistible torrent of his enthusiasm- Not that it is 
all tempest, in force and sound. The largest waves are 
capped with sunlight, and between their booming and swell- 
ing is often heard the soft chime and delicious rippling of 
most musical waters. Fancy, taste, an ever-present sense 
of the beautiful, soften the intense poetic fervor, and some- 
what subdue the otherwise too dramatic and overpowering 
passion of the speaker. But, as it is, he shakes one to the 
soul's centre. I felt both excited and exhausted when I left 
the lecture-room, felt as I had thought I could only feel 
after hearing some great moral question discussed by a 
great orator. Yet Mr. Scherb made poetry more than a 
moral, he made it a religious^ subject. He seemed to bring 
to Poesy all the devotion which a zealous Catholic gives to 
Madonna. He burned his purest thought like incense before 
her shrine, where he knelt in deepest adoration. He seemed 



336 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

the prophet, the inspired preacher of that divinest hand- 
maiden of God. 

Among Ticknor's late publications is the ' Astr^a,' of 
Holmes. This poem is like every thing from his diamond- 
pointed pen, brilliant, racy, and peculiar. Yet I should say 
the poet has here given us less drollery and more wit than 
usual. We miss somewhat that genial philosophy which 
makes the best of life, and takes the world easy, which has 
so often delighted us in this poet's brief pleasure-trips upon 
the sea of literature. His satire stings more sharply, and 
cuts deeper, than ever before. There are some hard hits at 
the Reformer, which remind one of Dean Swift ; and which 
it strikes one the poet might have penned with a cold in his 
head, on some raw March morning, while waiting for a late 
breakfast. To speak plainly, they are not remarkable as 
expressirvns of good-nature and charitableness. But there 
are generous, after-dinner passages, beautiful, musical, or 
deliciously droll, which make up for these things. We 
must not forget that this contemptuous conservatism, which 
is the reverse of agreeable to us fanatics, is the greenest leaf 
in the bays of the poet to the eyes of a majority of his 
readers, and probably nobody is more fully aware of this 
than the poet himself. Why should he refrain from voicing 
his own thought, knowing it will be rendered back to him in 
such ready echoes from high places ? There is little danger 
of Holmes being sent from Parnassus to Coventry on any 
sorry hobby of reform. 

G. P. R. James, the novelist, is now in Boston. I have met 
him a number of times at Ticknor's. He is a fine, genial- 
looking, well-conditioned Englishman, singularly youthful 
and unworn in appearance, considering all that he has 
accomplished, and seems fully competent to set at least 
threescore and ten more horsemen not 'slowly' riding up the 
hills of romance and fame. Doubtless his fruitful brain yet 
holds any number of disinherited heirs, knights, barons bold, 
smugglers, gypsies, bandits and friars, princesses in dis- 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 337 

guise, damsels fair and witches old, all impatiently waiting 
for their turn to come round. Apropos of witches, I liear 
that Mr. James has been in Salem, collecting materials 
for a new romance, of the good old time, when elderly- 
ladies, remarkable for personal plainness and a fondness for 
black cats, and convicted of putting broomsticks to equestrian 
service, were straightway removed from an indignant com- 
munity by summary process. The denouement may be 
the trial by water and fire, and the whole interest of the 
story hang on ' Witch Hill.' Yet I hardly think this novelist 
needed such a subject, in order to bewitch his readers. 

By the way, while on a late visit to Salem, I was shown 
the veritable bewitched pins, with which divers persons were 
sorely pricked by the wicked spite of certain witches and 
wizards, often their neighbors, and sometimes their near 
relations, as the depositions show. Very annoying, such 
pointed attentions, even from one's friends. Tliese curious 
relics are kept in a small vial — verily a vial of wrath. 
They seem quite bright, considering their great age, keen 
old pins yet, and very little rusted by the blood of the 
saints. 

Oh ! happy are the witches of our day, who may weave 
their spells and perform their incantations in peace and 
safety, since, thanks to cosmetics and millinery, they are 
youthful and beautiful for a marvellous length of time, 
since they abandon the evil-eyed cat for the sleepy French 
lap-dog, and have nothing at all to do with broomsticks. It 
is true they sometimes prick on their victims to deeds of 
' high emprise,' or pin them down to the point, but in 
return they are not mercilessly handed over to the sheriff — 
only led before the priest. Adieu. 



29 



338 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 



LETTER XXXII. 

Boston, November 18th, 1850. 

The forenoon of Saturday last I spent at the Asylum for 
the Blind, in South Boston. It was my first visit to an 
institution of the kind, and I was intensely interested, almost 
too powerfully affected. Many of the pupils, I observed, 
had some physical defect aside from their blindness, yet 
there were some exceedingly pleasing in appearance. I 
observed also that the faces of the little girls wore a patient, 
quiet, sweet, and contented expression, while the boys 
looked less happy, and in some instances rebellious, under 
their fearful misfortune. Yet in music all seemed to forget 
the hardness of their lot. They sung and played with an 
enthusiasm, a fervor, and a passionate abandon to the enjoy- 
ment, peculiar to them, I thought. If there was more 
strength of lungs than sweetness of tone, and more of vigor 
than skill in execution apparent, one could understand it all, 
and the heart was more touched than it could be by far 
sweeter and more artistic music elsewhere. It were, most 
unreasonable to ask a measured flow and soft cadences from 
the outgush of a long pent-up stream. But there were some 
voices in the choir which struck me as very fine, and 
promising much if carefully cultivated. 

I saw Laura Bridgman, who, with her interesting teacher, 
was the centre of attraction while she remained in the 
school-room. Laura is a very neat and pleasing person, 
with a bright intelligent face, and almost a superabundance 
of life and childish merriment in her manner and action. 
She will fling her arms around her teacher and laugh im- 
moderately at any little thing which pleases her. She 
converses in the mute language with the utmost rapidity and 
enthusiasm. While we were present, she was telling a 
friend of the loss of a canary which he had given her. He 
said he would send her another, and asked her what sort of 
a bird it should be. ' Oh,' she answered, ' let it be a bird 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 339 

of bright plumage, and a sweet singer. I would have no 
other.' 

Laura seems a mirthful, affectionate child, and yet she 
impressed me painfully, as a spirit which knew no rest, 
no calm, no true content. Her soul seemed like a light 
burning in a prison-cell, and only gleaming through one 
small barred window, or like a strong bird in a narrow cage, 
struggling to be free. And so to me it seems it must ever 
be ; all the knowledge to which she may attain, all the joy 
of love which may visit her sad heart, can only render more 
intense and abiding the longing for that greater knowledge 
to which she may never attain, for that strange, indefinable 
happiness which here she can never know. 

A lady was telling me the other day that she once met 
Laura Bridgman at Miss Bremer's room, in Boston, when 
Fanny Kemble was present. Could the world furnish a 
more touching contrast ? That poor, deaf, dumb, and blind 
girl, with nothing to speak for her but the play of her 
fingers, her quick, nervous gestures, and the wan sunshine 
of a smile unaided by the light of kindling eyes ; and that 
grandly dowered child of genius, with her almost super- 
human power of expression, with her wondrous voice, 
through which speaks every human affection and passion, 
with her air, her action, and the splendid fire of her great 
eyes, now gleaming out pride, or hate, or defiance, from 
their dark depths, now reproachful, now mournful, now 
sparkling and dancing with joy, now drooping with a dreamy 
tenderness, and now upraised in the trance of some divine 
aspiration. 

Laura Bridgman is said to be making constant and won- 
derful progress in her studies, and in her improvement and 
happiness her instructor, Dr. Howe, must daily be receiving 
his ' exceeding great reward ' for all his patient toil and dis- 
interested devotion. 

We also visited the School for Idiots, established by Dr. 
Howe, but under the care of Mr. Richards, a young man 



340 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

who has given himself up to a painful duty with a most 
noble and self-sacrificing spirit. 

I had always shrunk with involuntary and uncontrollable 
disgust from scenes such as I supposed this school must 
present ; but I summoned all my strength, and entered, soon 
to find the pain and sickness of the soul lost in a grateful 
and wondering pleasure. Never before had I felt myself 
capable of any thing better than a shuddering pity for those 
poor senseless creatures, those living bodies of death, regard- 
ing them almost as the outcasts of nature and the disowned 
and disinherited children of God. I had believed them by a 
hard necessity abandoned to the narrowest, darkest sphere of 
human existence, aimless, companionless, utterly desolate. 
But here I found these same beings, whose condition I had 
looked upon as in the last degree hopeless, steadily, though 
slowly advancing from one small degree of intelligence to 
another — feeling emulation, catching gleams of reason 
and sense, feebly putting forth their long-benumbed mental 
feelers, and grasping such scraps of knowledge as they have 
room for in the narnDw chambers of their poor cramped 
brains. 

The behavior of those pupils who had been any length 
of time in the school was most remarkable for quiet and 
propriety. The contrast between them and a boy who had 
arrived but the day before was very striking. None could 
be more aware than the pupils of the improprieties, eccen- 
tricities, and lawlessness, of their green companion. They 
seemed actually shocked at the outlandish ways of the 
strange boy, and with the liberties he was inclined to take 
with the visitors. 

These unfortunate children are first taught to exercise 
their limbs, in almost every case feeble, or deformed — to 
feed themselves, and hold up their heads. All, in time, 
learn to take some care of themselves, and become less and 
less objects of painful commiseration and disgust. 

Mr. Richards does not attempt to teach the alphabet 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 341 

separately, but puts the pupils at once into words, printed in 
large type on strips of paper, and teaches them to spell by 
means of letters on small blocks of wood. One little 
fellow, with a head scarcely larger than a pippin, spelt out 
for us the Lord's Prayer, without an error. This was one 
of the most profoundly affecting of sights to me. That 
mindless child so unconsciously praying to the Immortal 
Father, the thought of whose existence was too great for the 
narrow head to receive, but whose love lived in the simple 
heart that strove to be ' good,' and leaped up at the voice 
of encouragement and praise. It was indeed a pleasure 
to observe the happiness of these children whenever they 
had acquitted themselves well. When first they grasp a 
new thought or fact, their joy in the possession is touching 
to behold. Then looking down into those eyes, dimmed by 
the heavy mists of idiocy, you can see the far, faint flash of 
the deathless soul, as though for a moment gleaming up 
from an abyss of shadows. 

The unwearying patience, the unfailing kindness, and the 
wise gentleness, of the teachers of this school, are subjects 
of wondering admiration to all visitors. May God's strength 
and blessing continue to support them .^nd hallow their good 
work. Let none be disappointed and disheartened that the 
results are small, but hail with grateful joy, the most in- 
articulate cry of the soul which for years has slept in the 
night and torpor of idiocy. The mine is dark and noisome, 
and the ore not rich ; all the more honor to those who labor 
so patiently to bring it farth. The rock is hard and un- 
promising, and long and wearisome must be the toil ere it 
cleaves, and shows the small soul-crystal within. The 
soldiers of the Empire served faithfully for small pay ; but 
when it came at last, each coin had a double value for 
bearing the head of Napoleon. Thus the true philanthropist 
ever sees on his hard-earned rewards the face of his Divine 
Master, and is abundantly repaid. 

After all, if the just Creator regards not his children 
29* 



42 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

according to the measure of their brains, but by the inno- 
cence of their hearts, how much higher in His light stand 
these poor witless ones, than some to whom we pay our 
blind reverence, yet whose grand brows, the high domes of 
intellect shrine no thought of the true God, but a low, mean 
idol of self^ before which the incense of the world's praise 
is burned day and night. Adieu. 



LETTER XXXIII. 

Washington, January 16, 1851. 

Dear W : Having become established in my winter 

quarters, I have thought that some little chronicling of daily 
events, and an occasional sketch of life in the Capital city, 
might not be uninteresting to you. 

On the evening after my arrival, I attended one of the 
President's levees. This I found a great crowd, but a very 
pleasant affair notwithstanding, as here T met many friends 
and acquaintance of last session. President Fillmore wore 
the old, urbane smile, and gave the same courteous greet- 
ing to all who approached. I wonder if, with men of his 
temperament, good-nature is always spontaneous and easy, 
if it never drags. I have often thought that your habitu- 
ally kind and courteous people must miss a great luxury, 
which the more passionate and bilious enjoy in speaking 
their minds, with a careless or vehement boldness, and in 
touching up the faults and follies of their fellows. 

I noticed on that evening an endless variety of costumes, 
the national spirit of independence breaking out in all imag- 
inable styles and colors, and that every body wore an easy, 
at-home manner. There is, as you know, at these levees, 
neither music nor dancing, but people look very gay, never- 
theless, as they collect in groups to laugh and chat, or 
stroll up and down, admiring and criticising, as they find 
most matter for commendation or satire. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 343 

I have not been to the Capitol much as yet ; no very inter- 
esting questions having been up for discussion of late. The 
Cheap Postage bill before the House is one of most im- 
portance to us outsiders. They are making five-minutes' 
speeches upon this, which are sometimes quite amusing. 
The difference between the different speakers' powers of 
condensation and directness of thought is here most appa- 
rent. Now and then rises one, who, speaking straight to 
the point, is able to say his say distinctly and fully within 
the small appointed time — but, alas ! the Chairman's ham- 
mer brings many a poor fellow up standing in the first faint 
dawn of thought, cruelly cuts him off in the midst of a 
metaphor, perhaps. I have noticed that Mr. Stanly, of 
North Carolina, and Mr. Strong, of Pennsylvania, are par- 
ticularly happy in packing their opinions into the five-min- 
utes' measure. I was greatly amused the other day by a 
choice bit of reasoning employed by an opponent of the 
bill. ' If,' said he, ' the revenue of the department is in- 
creased in proportion to the reduction of postage, as the 
friends of the measure affirm, do away with postage alto- 
gether, and what an immense income will you have ! ' This 
logic is like the Irishman's, who, having heard a new patent 
stove recommended as ' saving half the fuel,' declared that 
he would have two, and so save the whole ! 

In the Senate, yesterday morning, Mr. Clay spoke at 
some length, and very earnestly, in support of a petition 
from Rhode Island, against the African slave trade, and in 
favor of Colonization, which petition the distinguished Sena- 
tor impressively declared was signed by a large portion 
of the elite of that State ; by Governors and ex-Governors, 
Senators and ex-Senators, members and ex-members; by 
many of the literati^ heads of colleges, &lc. The petition 
presented under such august auspices, opens with a fearful 
picture of the slave trade as it yet exists with all its out- 
rages, horrors, and brutalities — no, I ask pardon of those 
dumb, unreasoning creatures who have never been degraded 



344 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

from an honest brutehood by the lust of tyranny and the 
vile love of money, and would substitute infernalities for 
brutalities. The petitioners then proceed to point out Colo- 
nization as the only remedy for this enormous evil, and to 
ask in its behalf the countenance and support of Govern- 
ment. May we not consider the long vexed and vexatious 
question settled at last ? Is not its final quietus made ? 
Statesmen, divines, authors, and philanthropists will argue, 
and preach, and speculate no longer, now that the ''UteratV 
of Rhode Island have pronounced their decision ; and most 
surely the free colored people of the United States will 
doubt and demur and remonstrate no longer, now that the 
elite of Rhode Island have taken their poor fortunes in 
charge. They scarcely expected such an interposition of 
Providence. May we not look to see the ocean soon white 
with the outward bound sails of government-furnished fleets, 
bearing to the far land of their grandfathers, and great- 
grandfathers, America's oppressed and disowned children ? 
As the matter now stands, the free-colored people will 
surely not take offence at being publicly branded by the 
distinguished Senator, as a ' degraded, corrupt, and dissolute 
class ; ' for, under the patronage of the literature, divinity, 
and fashion of a sovereign State, are they not going forth 
to civilize and Christianize Africa; ' missionaries,' according 
to the appointment of Clay, ' priests after the order of Dr. 
Tyng? 

Without reference to Mr. Clay, whom I believe sincere 
in the advocacy of his favorite impracticability, as a benevo- 
lent plan, and aside from his political interests, I can but 
remark that I am often struck by the pious phrases and 
high-sounding professions of philanthropy, with which the 
speeches of politicians abound, when upon this same subject 
of colonization. Words of solemn warning and severe 
morality, never brought forth on any other occasion, then 
come with ponderous force ; and the name of the Deity, 
not precisely a stranger in their vocabulary, is then uttered 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 345 

in a new connection, and in a tone somewhat less easy and 
familiar than that in which it is heard in their ordinary- 
discourse. An organ-grinder, under my window, after giv- 
ing us ' Jeannette and Jeannot,' and ' Yankee Doodle,' has, 
to our utter astonishment, struck up ' Old Hundred.' Who 
believes that the Italian stroller feels the simple solemnity 
of that grand old puritanical air ? Does he not mechani- 
cally grind out religion, as he does sentiment and patriotism, 
because it pays ? 

Last evening, the ladies at the National Hotel gave a 
soiree^ which I had the honor of attending. It was a very 
brilliant affair, a scene of much display and enjoyment. 
Almost every Washington celebrity was there, except the 
great American statesman, Webster, and the little Polish 
Lieutenant, Jagiello. I noticed the French Minister and 
his family. Lady Bulwer, Madame Calderon, and the half- 
ferocious, half-comical representative of the Russian Bear, 
M. Bodisco ; the elegant Miss Lynch of New York, and the 
brilliant Mrs. Ashley of St. Louis — fine types of the 
Northern and Southern lady, and numbers of both matrons 
and young girls, whose enviable distinctions were beauty, 
gracefulness, and tasteful dress. And there, in apparent 
fine health and spirits, were Clay, Cass, Houston, and 
Scott — an interesting little bevy of Presidential possibilities. 
Above them all, like Saul above his brethren, towered the 
Herculean hero of Vera Cruz, looking far more like the 
' great embodiment ' than his attenuated Kititucky rival. 

The Michigan statesman would well fill the Presidential 
chair, for what he lacks in height, he makes up in breadth, 
and would look the representative of the more solid, con- 
servative, respectable, and well-to-do portion of the nation ; 
such as large merchants, wealthy planters, law-abiding 
Doctors of Divinity, substantial Dutch farmers, peace-loving 
justices, dinner-giving, order preserving mayors, and their 
nldermanic corps. And I don't see why General Houston 
is not as well fitted for that great chair as the rest, only 



346 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

let him be put under bonds not to whittle the arms off. On 
the score of killing Mexicans, his claim is older, if not 
stronger, than Scott's ; he has full as much conciliatory- 
suavity as Cass ; in the opinion of his enlightened consti- 
tuents, as an orator, he is the peer of Clay, while he has 
the advantage of Webster in the faithful devotion of his 
State. In truth, I do not see but that his claims are 
not only good, but pressing upon the patriotism and grati- 
tude of the country ; he has an imposing person, he has 
political experience, he has military renown, he has South- 
em principles. Take away his jack-knife, and give him a 
hat of Christian fashion, and he will surely answer. 

We have had for the past week the most deliciously 
unseasonable weather you can imagine. I am writing this 
morning near an open window, through which pours a rich 
flood of summer sunlight, while, to make the illusion perfect, 
from a balcony near comes the matin song of a canary, 
with no hint of a cage in the blithe warble. Think of this 
for your comfort, as you battle with the East wind in your 
morning walk, or shiver over the register on your return. 

I am struck with the beautifying and revivifying effect 
which this climate seems to have on the complexion of 
many ladies. I never saw such brilliant color as positively 
illuminates the fair faces one meets on the Avenue, these 
sunny days. Not the deep, universal, vulgarly healthy glow 
which a frosty morning spreads over the countenances of 
your Northern Ifcauties, but a bright, changeless carnation, 
which stays where it belongs, in the cheeks and lips, and 
never shoots up into the brow which lies like a line of snow 
above it, nor makes impertinent incursions into the nasal 
territory. 

Sometimes, when I meet a lady with slight figure, thin 
features, and shadowed eyes, I am startled by the unvarying 
vividness and distinct outline of this color, and murmur sadly 
— 'far gone in consumption — hectic — poor thing ! ' Don't 
in your cynicism suggest that all I ascribe to the climate of 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 347 

Washington may be but the effect of that French abomi- 
nation, called rouge. You cannot explain away the pheno- 
menon in that manner : but for a moment granting that the 
daughters of the Puritans could so be-Jezebel themselves, 
they would surely have taste enough to put it on more 
delicately and artistically. Even your irreverence for the 
elite of the Capital city could not go so far as to suppose it 
possible that matrons, whose failing eyesight prevented them 
from seeing what a daub they were making of it, would 
indulge in rouging ! No ; if we may no longer reverence 
the gray hairs of age, because ' they are not,' let us at least 
refrain from smiting it on the cheek. 

Again, I repeat, all must be referred to the climate ; and 
if some are afflicted with too much of a good thing, it is their 
misfortune, not their fault — the climate overdoes the matter. 
It is strange, however, that it has no effect on my complexion. 
I look in vain to see the red light breaking through the pale, 
Spanish-brown of my cheek. But perhaps I have not been 
here long enough for such good fortune. 

Adieu. 



LETTER XXXIV. 

Washington, January 27, 1851. 

In the Senate, Mr. Seward has lately made a fine speech 
on the claims of American merchants for indemnities for 
French spoliations. Like all the preceding efforts of this 
able Senator, this is characterized by calm thought, clear 
statement, just sentiments, and a careful finish in every 
part. 

On Wednesday, there was, as you have doubtless seen, a 
spicy debate on Mr. Clay's resolution on the African slave 
trade. You have been a little startled, perhaps, at the 
strange tack which Mr. Hale took in order to checkmate his 
distinguished opponent, by bringing forward, if not indors- 



348 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

irig, the opinion of Governor Hammond — that the horrors 
and evils of the slave trade would be reduced by throwing it 
open and making it like any other branch of lawful com- 
merce. This bold skirmisher made, as usual, a dashing 
foray into the forbidden aud jealously guarded territory of 
'the institution' — which called out its feudal defenders, 
and we had quite a scene of it. Mr. Clay grew stern, 
autocratical, and sarcastic ; while Mr. Foote shot up from 
his seat every five minutes, to make a brief explanation or 
defence, or to raise some point of order. It is amusing to 
witness the sudden spasms of propriety to which this bold 
and fiery statesman is subject. When certain Senators have 
the floor, he manifests a nice and jealous regard for parlia- 
mentary etiquette and decorum, and an absolute horror of 
disrespectful allusions and irrelevant speech. With a naive 
unconsciousness of his own lawlessness and manifold trans- 
gressions in a parliamentary way, he sometimes indignantly 
calls to order a speaker who is proceeding in a perfectly 
orderly manner, reproves the Chair for neglect of duty, and 
seems to consider the quiet and solemn Senate itself a scene 
of misrule and dire disorder. At such times his hallucination 
reminds me of the strange state in which Davy Copperfield 
found himself on the night of his first dissipation. You 
recollect that, after dinner, wine, and cigars, Steerforth, 
Grainger and Markham took him to the theatre. He says : 

' There was a great stage, looking very clean and smooth 
after the streets ; and there were people upon it, talking about 
something or other; but not at all intelligibly. There was 
an abundance of bright lights, and there was music, and 
there were ladies in the boxes, and I don't know what more. 
The whole building looked to me as if it were learning to 
swim ; it conducted itself in such an unaccountable manner, 
ivhen I tried to steady it.'' 

What will Mr. Clay do for a target for his wit, when Mr. 
Hale shall have left the Senate ? Toward whom can Mr. 
Foote make such frequent displays of his respect for order 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 349 

and his devotion to the Union ? Will not a portion, at least, 
of the ' occupation ' of both Othello and his orderly sergeant 
then be gone ? And, what is of more consequence, what 
will the Free-Soil party do without him, who so long and so 
fearlessly has carried on a guerilla warfare in defence of 
their principles ? 

The levee at the President's on Friday evening was 
unusually agreeable. We there met many of our friends, 
and the time passed very pleasantly. 

Among the celebrities present was Jagiello, attracting the 
attention even of strangers by the dark, peculiar type of her 
beauty, the elastic grace of her movement, and the vivacity 
of her manner. I am so fortunate as to see much of this 
brave and earnest woman, who has done for freedom what 
she best could in the way best known to her. Jagiello has 
a large and true nature, which opens upon one more and 
more. Her impulses are all noble, and her intuitions as 
clear and direct as the sunlight. Her intense love of freedom 
is not an enthusiasm, but an inherent quahty of her being — 
not a brand kindled at the fires of revolution, but a central 
flame. She is eminently a real person, one who has her 
decided, individual opinions on the great questions of the 
time. In expression she is strong and fearless, but never 
brusque or ungentle. 

Speaking of Jagiello, reminds me of the bill for the relief 
of the heirs of Kosciusko, or rather, I believe, it is a general 
bill of venue for the District of Columbia, from which they 
look for advantage. As long ago as 1819, suits were com- 
menced for the recovery of certain funds, which General 
Kosciusko brought from Poland and lodged in this country. 
Becoming convinced that certain powerful influences would 
prevent their obtaining justice in the court for the District of 
Columbia, the heirs, through their attorney, Major Tochman, 
made application to Congress, praying for the passage of an 
act authorizing the removal of the case to the United States 
Court for the District of Maryland. This was in 1847, and 
30 



350 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

the petition has not yet been granted ; but the general bill of 
which I have spoken 4)assed the Senate last session, and 
went to the House, where it was made a special bill, and 
returned to the Senate. It is now before the Judiciary- 
Committee of that body, which proposes to make it again a 
general bill. This is supposed to be a device for defeating 
the bill, which is strongly opposed by the outside influences 
of persons interested in withholding the funds, and by the 
Russian Minister. What influence the envoy of an autocrat 
can bring to bear on sturdy republicans is certainly a mys- 
tery. M. Bodisco gives fine dinners — but that is neither 
here nor there. ^ 

The heirs of Kosciusko ask our Government for no gift ; 
they merely demand the payment of a just debt, and ask 
the aid of Congress in obtaining simple justice. This is 
certainly the last claim which should be disallowed, and 
these the last suitors to be treated cavalierly, ungenerously, 
and unjustly. Our Government may never hope to dis- 
charge the debt of gratitude which the country owes to 
the heroic Pole, but here is an opportunity for testifying 
some sense of the eternal obligation. But perhaps our 
patriots believe that all such debts are being honorably paid 
off by annual instalments of 4th of July glorifications. 

Such a case as this but proves, what before has been 
strongly suspected, that the patriotism of most politicians is 
a sad sham. You hear it in anniversary orations, in after- 
dinner speeches and Union addresses ; but when you would 
touch the pure, grateful, disinterested, patriotic sense — 
where is it ? That politicians speak well of the bridge 
which carries them over, bestow eloquent praise on the 
country in which and by which they live, is very true. 
They speak advisedly and sincerely no doubt ; but perhaps 
such patriotism may be of as questionable a quality as the 
pious and appreciating reverence for his pastor of a certain 
New Zealand chief The story goes, that a young mission- 
ary landed at his island, to succeed a sacred teacher de- 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 351 

ceased some time before. At an interview with the chief, 
the young minister asked : — 

' Did you know my departed brother ? ' 

' Oh, yes ! I was deacon in his church.' 

' Ah, then, you knew him well ; and was he not a good 
and tender-hearted man ? ' 

' Yes,' replied the pious deacon, with much gusto, ' he 
veiy good and very tender. I eat a piece of Mm ! ' 

Adieu. 



LETTER XXXV. 

Washington, February 3d, 1851. 

Dear W : The week past has been one of very little 

interest or incident in the political or social world of Wash- 
ington. 

In the Senate, California land titles and private land 
claims have occupied most of the time. Mr. Benton and 
Mr. Berrien have been extensively heard from on these 
questions. I always listen with interest to Colonel Benton, 
not for the reason that I lately heard a lady give, that ' he is 
so delightfully personal in his remarks' — for this, though 
true of him, and sometimes on a dull day productive of a 
pleasant little excitement, is by no means a peculiarity, or a 
distinction in the Senate. But for his strong, bold, straight- 
forward way of speaking, the sledge-hammer style of his 
argument, the merciless cut and thrust of his invective, one 
can but pay him a sort of fearful homage. His wit is not 
the harmless phosphorescent light which plays incessantly 
along the course of elegant and graceful oratory ; it is 
rather like the quick, sharp flash which the hoofs of a fierce 
and powerful horse strike from a flinty path at night. 

On Friday morning, there was a brief, but very interesting 
discussion on the Amistad claim, in which Chase, Clay, 
and Hale, took part. Mr. Chase spoke as usual, with much 



358 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

clearness and force. He is one of the most manly and 
truly dignified members of the Senate. He proclaims his 
peculiar principles, unpopular as they are with a majority of 
that body, equally without fear and without bravado. He has 
independence without obstinacy, sincerity without brusque- 
ness, and morality without cant. In the beginning of the 
debate, Mr. Clay made an attack upon Mr. Hale, giving a 
sharper extra effect to his remarks by pointing his long, re- 
buking finger at that good-humored Senator. Mr. Hale could 
not have been advised of this fierce onslaught ; yet he defend- 
ed himself, or rather returned the sudden blow, with a quick- 
ness, a boldness, and a severity absolutely startling. He 
turned the tables at once — ' carried the war into Africa ' — 
not by attacking the Colonization scheme, but by charging 
on the Compromise. Mr. Hale may not always come forth 
fully prepared to meet his adversaries with some ponderous 
argument, or some cutting sarcasm, long sharpened and 
polished for the occasion, but he is always ready to seize at 
once on whatever weapons lie nearest his strong hand. 
There is a story of a Saracen chief, who, being suddenly 
called to battle, while the smith was yet welding his cimetar, 
caught it from the anvil, and dashed up the mountain side, 
letting the winds temper it as he rode. So this bold debater 
snatches in haste the arms of his argument, or wit, and if 
the winds of the occasion cool and harden the blade, well 
and good — if, not, he sometimes does terrible execution 
with the hot, untempered steel. 

This interesting discussion was brought to an untimely 
end by the President's calling the New Hampshire Senator 
to order, though he was only replying to the personal 
remarks which his distinguished opponent had made sans re- 
buke and sans interruption. But Free-Soilers are evidently 
not among the men whom ' the King delighteth to honor.' 

In the House, the Mint bill has been under discussion. 
Mr. Chandler, of Philadelphia, a speaker who always com- 
mands a respectful and pleased attention, has spoken very 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 353 

forcibly against the establishment of a mint in New York. 
The New York delegation are, as might be supposed, 
earnestly in favor of it — so we had quite a spicy debate on 
the question. Were I not conscientiously opposed to puns, 
I should say that the oratory of some of the speakers was 
like a weak julep, with the aqueous element predominating, 
and with more mint than spirit. 

On Wednesday, Mr. Julian of Indiana made a noble 
speech on the Homestead bill. This was a strong, fearless, 
amd eloquent expression of a liberty-loving and philanthropic 
spirit. It is lying before me now, I have just been read- 
ing some of its finest passages ; and, brief and unstudied 
as it is, it does not seem to me a speech for one day, or 
for one Congressional session. It seems nerved with the 
strength of a great purpose, veined with a vital truth, a 
moral life-blood beating through it warm and generous. 
It is something that must live and work yet many days. 

Social life for the past week has rolled on in the usual 
routine — receptions, levees, parties — parties, levees, re- 
ceptions. There are many, alas ! who are utterly involved 
in this fashionable whirlpool — swept away by this hurri- 
cane-life. Poor creatures ! Yet there is nothing like getting 
used to such things. I shouldn't wonder if some rather 
liked it than otherwise — if, like Holmes's Treadmill hero, 
they should pronounce it ' pretty sport,' and, even after their 
release, feel disposed to return, and ' have a round or two 
for fun.'' 

Mr. Dempster has been giving his ' Ballad Entertainments ' 
here to admiring audiences. No one sings more directly to 
the heart, or can more readily sound its depths of emotion, 
than this delightful vocalist. His clear, round notes drop 
into it, one by one, like shining pebbles, till it overflows in 
tears, or sparkles up and dances in mirth. His humor and 
pathos are alike irresistible ; he gives strong voice to plain 
manly thought, and sweet voice to simple humble loves; 
he makes the spirit of home-life vocal ; he is truly a singer 
30* 



354 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

for the people, one they do well to honor, for he has faith- 
fully done his part towards bringing about, for their refine- 
ment and elevation, an equality in the most rejfined of all 
pleasures — the democracy of art. 

We have also enjoyed a real treat in attending Mr. Van- 
denhoff's ' Evenings with Sheridan.' We went to these 
with high expectations, which were more than satisfied. 
Mr. VandenhofF is an admirable reader, as well as an actor 
of fine genius, and a gentleman of most elegant appearance. 
The readings were every evening preceded by a sketch of 
the life, and criticisms on the genius, of Sheridan ; and 
this was by no means the least interesting part of the enter- 
tainment. These introductions were most happily conceived 
and brilliantly written. It is surely high praise to say, what 
all who heard them must acknowledge, that these clever, 
witty, dashing, yet most appreciating remarks, were a fitting 
and a pleasing prelude to the incomparable comedies of 
Sheridan. 

Mr. Vandenhoff 's personations are very fine ; he flings 
himself body and soul into the characters he represents. I 
have heard voices of greater compass and variety of tone 
than his, but I think I never saw a face more instantaneously 
obedient to every change of thought or feeling. When all 
is so good, it were difficult to designate a best ; but I was 
especially pleased with his Sir Anthony Absolute, Mrs. 
Malaprop, Bob Acres, Joseph Surface, Sir Peter Teazle, and 
Sir Fretful Plagiary. His male characters are better than 
his female, though Mrs. Candor is done to life, and Lady 
Teazle is by him better given us than by many to the kirtle 
born. In the screen-scene, he was indeed admirable — the 
whole of this incomparably ridiculous denouement passed 
before us more than ever irresistible in its comic contretemps 
and overwhelming surprises. 

Ah, that screen-scene, how significant and suggestive it 
seemed to me, seeing it where I then saw it. Thinks 1 to 
myself, there is many a political Joseph Surface, who, by 



SELECTIONS FROIH LETTERS. 



355 



the utterance of ' noble sentiments,' passes for a prodigy of 
patriotic virtue with our venerable, universal relative. Uncle 
Samuel, and who flatters and cajoles him until, like poor Sir 
Peter, he unconsciously becomes a delighted party to his 
own dishonor. I thought, also, that there was a principle 
which, in some respects, might stand for the Charles Surface 
of this political comedy — one generally esteemed a sad 
scamp — suspected and avoided by the severely moral and 
the profoundly respectable, but who may finally throw down 
the screen and reveal the whole plot, to the total discom- 
fiture of smooth hypocrisy and sentimental rascality. 

Rev. James Freeman Clarke has been preaching at the 
Unitarian Church in this city for some weeks past. He 
leaves for the West to-day, much to the regret of all those 
who have been so privileged as to hear him. Mr. Clarke is 
a true preacher of Christ's gospel in its purity and simplicity 
— not alone of the peculiar doctrines of his own religious 
sect. I have never yet heard what could be called a 
doctrinal sermon from his lips. Though of a decidedly 
poetical mind, he is practical, earnest, and direct in his 
teachings, and appeals more to our conscience and reason 
than to our imagination. He does not soar away out of our 
sight into the clouds and mists of changing theory and 
floating speculation ; nor set us to soaring (an unnatural 
exercise for unfeathered flesh and blood, say what they will,) 
in the rarefied region of transcendental philosophy, through 
long wearisome stretches of cold, blue air. He rather walks 
beside us, through the common ways of life, cheering us 
with his pleasant, inspiring converse. He addresses himself 
to our every-day wants, and reminds us of our every-day 
duties; he does not point us to some far-off, possible good, 
some crown of triumph, on the heights of life which the 
struggling soul may at last grasp — 'some unimagined isle 
in the far seas,' where it may at length find rest ; but tells us 
that the good, the glory, and the repose, lie in our own 
breasts, in our daily lives, in the faithful discharge of the 



356 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

simplest duties which lie before us, in obedience to the 
first law of ajl true beneficent life, the simple law of love — 
in our care to keep bright before earth and heaven that 
divine link that binds us, in our mortality, to God and his 
eternity. Adieu. 



LETTER XXXVI. 

Washington, February 10th, 1851. 

Dear W : I have sat down to write to you about — 

nothing in particular. I hoped when I last wrote you that 
I would have a thing or two to tell by this time. But I am 
tired of waiting for Washington-life to turn up something for 
my benefit or divertisement. 'It's no use' — nonsense of 
the aimless and pointless kind is all that is left for me. But 
you, I know, will have charity to believe that I would be 
wise or witty, had I matter for wisdom or wit. You must 
lay the blame on Congress, who will not get up any farces, 
or bait any bears for us poor, ennuied letter-writers. 

It is a blue day without — I speak figuratively, for no 
small patch of blue can be seen in the sky above. The 
weather, of late so bright and genial, is dull and drizzling, 
and all nature seems to have gone into the sulks. The hand- 
organ has made it appearance, as usual, under my window, 
and dispensed its music for the million, from psalm-tunes to 
polkas. It somehow sounds hoarse and wheezy, as though 
it had taken cold. But perhaps a sort of instrumental 
asthma is a chronic malady with it — an organic disease. 

I had trifled thus far, when some friends called on me to 
accompany them to the Supreme Court, where it was under- 
stood Mr. Webster was to speak. For the first half hour 
after our arrival, we listened to Mr. George Wood of New 
York, of 'Silver-Grey' notoriety — then Mr. Webster took 
the floor, in reply. I understood nothing of the merits of 
the case — ^.the speech seemed made up of legalities and 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 357 

technicalities, and I could do little else than look at the 
speaker. It is much to see Mr. Webster — there is a Titanic 
grandeur about him still — though now his genius seems 
but the aimless force of a great star, fallen from its first high 
place, to wander pathless and dimmed. (I trust 1 need not 
assure you, I did not use that last word in the Mantelini 
sense.) 

Mr. Webster had in his manner far more of life and 
earnestness that Mr. Wood, and yet, to the uninitiated, was 
most solemnly dull. There is an awful dignity about that 
Supreme Court room which oppresses one. If those dread- 
ful Judges wore wigs, it would be quite too much to bear ; 
such a formal, classical, and etiquettical place as it is. I 
noticed that Mr. Webster, after quoting a phrase — ' the 
ancient ways of the law' — hastened to translate it into 
antiquas vias legis^ as though he had been guilty of an 
indecorum. 

The Judges are an imposing and dignified looking set of 
men. Judge McLean of Ohio most impressed me by his 
manly and noble appearance. Judge Woodbury has a fine 
face, as also has Judge Nelson of New York. Taney is the 
very ideal of a Chief Justice ; looking cold, emotionless, 
unsusceptible ; a bundle of precedents, an epitome of au- 
thorities. It hardly seems that such a man, from whose 
life the insatiable sponge of the Law has absorbed the 
natural juices, need to suffer decay, and be buried, like 
other people, at last. Such an existence is in itself a pre- 
serving and mummy-making process ; and it would almost 
seem that he has only to grow more musty and dry, like 
some old parchment, until Death rolls him up, ties him with 
red tape, and lays him away in some dusty pigeon-hole. 

The Court-room was crowded with the friends of Mr. 
Webster, and with strangers, many of whom were listening 
to him for the first time. Lieutenant Jagiello was there, and 
it was amusing to watch the attentive expression of her 
earnest face. She understood nothing — though there we 



358 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

had not so much the advantage of her as she supposed. 
She regarded Mr. Webster as the friend of the Hungarians, 
and had faith to believe that his words were wise and 
gracious. 

In the Library, at the Capitol, I had the good fortune, a 
day or two since, to be presented to Mr. Goodrich, the real, 
live Peter Parley. I had so confounded him with the 
venerable and uncle-ish character he has so successfully 
and delightfully assumed, that I must own to being some- 
what taken aback at finding him a slightly made, gen- 
tlemanly person, far too young for the gouty and garrulous 
Peter. I was much gratified at meeting this writer, as I 
regard him as one of the truest benefactors of the age. No 
writer has ever ministered more, if as much, to the pleasure 
and instruction of children, and a generation are growing 
up with a grateful love of him in their hearts. Could the 
world have given him a more beautiful and soul-satisfying 
fame ? 

The high privilege, the honor of writing for children, is 
but little understood. Is it not a beautiful thing to call out 
the first bloom, to inhale the morning fragrance of the 
immortal soul-flower ? Is it not a great thing to trace the 
first words on the soft, white tablets of the mind, where they 
will harden and remain forever? Oh, those earliest teach- 
ings, how the soul treasures them, and holds them dear and 
sacred through all the changes and labors, distracting cares, 
and more distracting pleasures of life. The mind cannot 
grow proud and strong enough to expel them, nor can the 
heart harden and contract till it crushes them. I have heard, 
somewhere, the story of a faithful steward of a banished 
lord, who cut into a young tree on the old estate, and hid 
under the bark some small, but precious jewels belonging to 
his master. Years went by, and the young exile returned, 
an old man. The steward was gone, but his lord knew well 
the secret of his deposit. Where the young tree stood, now 
towered a thrifty oak, with a bark hardened and roughened 

/ 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 359 

by time ; but well it had kept its trust and its treasures, 
though the tough wood had closed over them, and no eye 
could guess their hiding-place. The tree was felled, and in 
its very heart the gems were found, not a point broken, 
not a ray wasted, they flashed up to the light the old bright- 
ness, and made glad the heart of the master. 

Ever so safe an investment is knowledge in the tender 
mind of a child — truth there lodged a life-long deposit. 
Though that mind may tower and expand, and put on rough 
defences against the world, it still joys in its little unsus- 
pected jewels ; and that heart but holds them closer and 
closer, with its strengthening fibres, till the hour when the 
Master comes to look for them. 

The fashionable world is on the qui vive just now with a 
coming event extraordinary, in the shape of a grand fancy 
ball, to be given to-night, by the elegant lady of a member 
from New York. I think of going as ' The Uninvited 
Guest' — some awkward country cousin, in green gingham 
— some maiden aunt with her knitting-work, or a French 
milliner with a long bill. For a full account of the sensation 
I shall create, see New York Herald. 

Adieu. 



LETTER XXXVII. 

Washington, Febmary 15, 1851. 

Dear W : Pardon me for giving another dull morning 

to you, and let pleasant old memories throw a little sun- 
shine into my chamber and on to my page, now that Nature, 
but yesterday all smiles, is weeping and frowning like a 
passionate, capricious girl — very unbecoming conduct in a 
lady of her years, I must say. 

' It rains, and rains, and is never weary ' — truly a day 
after a cabman's own heart. By the way, one cannot be 



360 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

long in Washington without remarking that it absolutely 
swarms with hacks of all sorts. 

The levee at the President's last night was one of the 
pleasantest of the season. There were many strangers 
present, lately come to the city, in large excursion parties 
from Maine and Massachusetts ; and among these was a fair 
proportion of beauty and grace. I think I have not seen so 
IT .ny handsome women at any drawing-room this winter. 
If you have never attended a levee, let me give you a little 
idea of one. 

After depositing hats and cloaks in the ante-room, you 
proceed to the ' Blue Room,' where the Marshal, or some 
friend, presents you to the President and his family. After 
exchanging the compliments, you pass on into the magnifi- 
cent ' East Room,' where most of the guests are assembled, 
forming a stream of promenaders, passing round and round 
the brilliant hall, or pausing in groups to laugh and chat. 

The President plays the role of the host in an admirable 
manner. He is urbane and cordial with no air of effort or 
condescension. Mrs. and Miss Fillmore perform their parts 
with equal grace and readiness. The President's ' one fair 
daughter ' impresses one more and more as an intelligent, 
natural, modest, and fresh-hearted girl. 

She dresses with peculiar simplicity and good taste, and 
always meets one with a sunny, unforced smile, and words 
of pleasant greeting. 

Passing into the East Room, we first remarked the 
towering forms of Scott and Houston, each with a host of 
admirers circling about him — a slow whirlpool of broad- 
cloth and brocade — while Foote and Douglass, and other 
distinguished Senators created considerable eddies in the 
crowd as they passed along. It is curious to observe how 
lamb-like the fiercest lion of war becomes in the drawing- 
room — there he softens his terrible front, and ' roars you 
gently an' it were a nightingale.' There, the hand used to 
wield the dripping sword, trifles daintily with my lady's fan ; 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 361 

there, the lips, wont to thunder out commands, or lighten 
forth hot oaths, wreath v/ith gay smiles and let off incessantly 
the harmless words of compliment and lively repartee. To- 
wards the close of the evening I saw the hero of Vera Craz, 
supporting on his arm his. youngest daughter, a very beauti- 
ful girl, who reminded one of Tennyson's ' Adeline,' 

' With her floating flaxen hair, 
Her rosy cheeks and full blue eye.' 

The mate to this fine picture was formed by the gallant 
Colonel May, a superb figure of a man, powerful enough to 
have worn mail and wielded the battle-axe at Agincourt, and 

Mrs. C , a young widow from St Louis, fair and stately, 

who also reminded me of one of Tennyson's creations — 

• Oh, sweet, pale Margaret, 
Oh, rare, pale Margaret.' 

But the belle of the evening, decidedly, was Mrs. A , 



of St. Louis ; a lady past the first season, but hardly the first 
bloom of youth ; one who charms alike by her beauty and 
courtly manners, and by the everywhere apparent freshness 
and kindliness of her heart. One would suppose that she 
had drunk of the fabled fountain of youth — was in pos- 
session of the true physiological secret — understood and 
obeyed that primal law of nature, self-preservation. 

' May I make a confiscation of this newspaper ^ ' said 
Jagiello to me, the other day. If I might make a confis- 
cation of one of Willis's luscious words, I should say that the 

plumptitude of Mrs. A is just at that point of roundness 

and ripeness behind which lie leanness and sharp lines, and 
beyond which you enter upon the dowager degree, wherein 
you eschew short sleeves and flounces, don black velvet 
and turbans, get short-breathed on mounting stairs, drive 
leisurely, go seldom to the opera, attend only morning 
service on Sunday, take long after-dinner naps, and pet 
31 



362 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

over-fed lap-dogs, sleepy and asthmatic. In short, she is of 
such fair and just proportions that one says with the poet — 

' Yet though I would not love thee less, 
I could not love thee more.'' 

Washington seems, indeed, the paradise of married and 
middle-aged women, and of elderly gentlemen. Society 
here seems much like that of English cities, in the respect 
that its leaders are not young flirts and dainty exquisites, 
but women of mature age and worldly experience, and 
men of dignified port, wearing Solomon's sign of wisdom, 
or, at least, that barbarous substitute which deceives nobody. 
You look, in vain, through our saloons for nice, spectacled, 
gossiping^ tea-drinking, snuff-taking old ladies, in brown 
satin and muslin kerchiefs. You see scores of fair forties, 
and stately fifties ; but, by some strange fatality, no woman 
ever reaches sixty in Washington ! And a regular hona 
fide old man, white-haired and feeble, lifting his dim eyes 
toward heaven, like a poor, wearied traveller, blinded and 
beaten by storms, looking eagerly through the twilight 
toward the cheerful windows of his home ; or dropping 
them humbly toward the earth, as though to become ac- 
quainted with the dust so soon to cover him, murmuring 
Scripture texts, and thinking of the old, old times, 

' As he totters o'er the ground 
With his cane.' — 

Such an one were here an anomaly — a natural curiosity. 
There has been nothing of the kind in either House of 
Congress since ' The Old Man Eloquent.' 

To return to our subject, the President's levees. To my 
plain, democratic taste, they are the pleasantest parties or 
gatherings in Washington. You have here less form and 
more freedom than any where else. You are always sure 
to meet some agreeable people ; you can enjoy a pleasant 
tete-d-tete with a friend, or have a brief chat with an 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 303 

acquaintance. As perpetual motion is the rule, you can 
break off a conversation, and go on with your promenading 
at your pleasure. This is your protection against bores ; for 
Washington, with all its delectabilities, has, I must confess, at 
least a limited assortment of those much-abused, universally- 
avoided descendants of the ancient Augurs, Have you ever, 
in the plenitude of your philanthropy, my dear friend, reflect- 
ed on the misery which this numerous class of our fellow- 
beings are called upon to endure ; how they are put upon, 
and belabored, and down-trodden? 'Tis true that they are 
happily insensible to this treatment ; but should we, because 
of our own cleverness and agreeability, presume upon their 
stupidity ? Is it magnanimous, I ask ? A selfish, business- 
distracted, and pleasure-driving world joins in a loud, uni- 
versal litany of — From all button-holding, one-story-telling 
old gentleman ; from all authors of one book ; from all 
singers of one song ; from all fanatics of one idea, deliver 
us ! From all makers of Buncombe speeches ;^ from all 
consistent politicians ; from all Constitution defenders ; from 
all perambulating periodical agents in green spectacles ; 
from all lecturers on 'isms and 'ologies ; from all venders 
of hair-dye and corn-plaster, deliver us ! From all newly- 
married couples ; from all model children ; from all young 
officers in uniform ; from all flirting, fan-flourishing belles ; 
from all lisping dandies and travelled monkeys, deliver us ! 
From all tract-distributing, Sunday-school-establishing old 
ladies ; from all maiden ladies with subscription-papers ; 
from all punsters ; from all blues, deliver us ! 

Is this fair and philanthropic ? Ah, my friend, have not 
this portion of the race, many of whom belong to our most 
respectable circles and first families, great cause of com- 
plaint ? May we not fear that, at last, they will rouse to 
a sense of their grievances, and bring them before the 
people, by some grand demonstration ; some Bore's Rights 
Convention ! While this is being held, will not dinner- 
parties and tea-parties pass off with uncommon eclat and 



364 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

good feeling ? Legislative bodies agreeably miss the heavy 
droning of some honorable members ; congregations rouse 
up under the sudden blaze of some ' new light,' and whole 
communities find carnal enjoyment in the interregnum of 
female benevolence. 

To return to our muttons — meaning no disrespect to my 
illustrious subjects. During our evening at the President's, 
we had some idle discussion on the chances and probabilities 
of the Presidential aspirants present. I could only say, 
that I hoped that of all the number named for the highest 
office in the gift of the nation, he might succeed who had 
struggled and intrigued the least for it. And so it may be ; 
for the bold leaders who storm the high places of power, 
often but touch the ' outer wall,' and fall into the ditch ; 
while men in the ranks, who press not on so hotly, finally 
climb over them and take the citadel. 

In the House, Mr. Eitchie's claim for relief for loss 
sustained by Government printing, has been under discus- 
sion. I know nothing of the merits of this, whether it be 
just or not; but there are those bold enough to say, that 
such claims are the leeches by which our plethoric Uncle 
Samuel is being bled more than is absolutely needful for 
his health ; that, in fact, it does not agree with him to lose 
so much blood. They say, also, that a new and a stricter 
system of political economy must supersede a system of 
lavish expenditure, bargaining, and bribery ; that good 
Uncle Samuel must have a new family physician, averse 
to the Sangrado practice ; must have a new; coachman, who 
will whip behind, and rid the old family coach of some of 
its useless hangers on ; and that the ship of State must 
be laid up in dry dock, and cleared of her barnacles. 

But, cui bono ! is our hopeless ejaculation to all plans of 
political reform which touch not the great original source 
of our political evils — Slavery ! That is the ' Death in the 
pot ; ' the rail thrown across the track of progress ; the 
mill-stone about the neck of our Republicanism ; the weasel 
under the wing of our National Eagle. Adieu. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 



365 



LETTER XXXVIII. 

"VYashington, February 24, 1851. 

Dear W : You will have seen what a fearful excite- 
ment the Boston fugitive slave rescue has produced in 
Washington. It was certainly very unkind, not to say 
immoral conduct, in the colored people to thus forcibly 
liberate their brother from bondage, at the risk of throwing 
our 'potent, grave, and reverend signiors' into such a fret 
and fermentation. Such alarm and choler are not healthy 
for men at their time of life. Such news and a great dinner 
are too much to digest at once ; and what is a bla*ck fellow's 
liberty to a white statesman's digestion ? 

' Call out the millingtary ! ' cry the political Noah Clay- 
poles, and the obliging Government obeys. The whole 
movement reminds one of the spirited opposition which that 
eminent and strong-minded dame, Mrs. Partington, made to 
the advances of the Atlantic ocean. She stood her ground 
stoutly, she plied her besom briskly, but the great uncon- 
querable element was ' too much ' for the worthy old lady 
at last. 

You were doubtless impressed, on reading the debates of 
the 21st, by the pious horror with which the Senator from 
Kentucky regarded Mr. Hale's somewhat disrespectful men- 
tion of the President's proclamation. If I remember rightly, 
the Senator who administered this stern reproof, and his 
disciples, were not wont to speak of the late President in a 
tone remarkably reverential. The military services of the 
brave old General, his high office, and the Roman justice 
and frank simplicity of his character, were no protection 
against contemptuous opposition, sarcasms, and ridicule. 
But now, one would suppose that honest Millard Fillmore, 
the son of a sturdy republican, in his youth 'bound 'pren- 
tice ' to a clothier, and honorably earning his bread by the 
labor of his hands, now by accident our citizen President, 
were the Great Mogul himself, or the mighty Khan of Tar- 
31* 



366 GHEENWOOD LEAVES. 

tar} , or the imperial despot of all the Russias ; and that 
for a humble subject to let drop a word against his divine 
rights, his wisdom and supremacy, were to incur the bas- 
tinado and bow-string, or to catch a Tartar, or to get a 
taste of the knout, followed by a little trip to Siberia for the 
benefit of his health, where he might make himself at home 
and see the country for fifty years or so, if the climate 
agreed with him, and he found it worth while to live so 
long. 

A distinguished leader in the Senate recently very amus- 
ingly, though blunderingly, characterized his own fame as 
' that poo* reputation which it had been his ambition to 
acquire.' Surely this last agitation movement will add 
materially to more than one reputation of that peculiar 
type. 

On Saturday, the Southern agitators had the field to them- 
selves. No one spoke for the North except Mr. Chase, who 
acquitted himself most faithfully. Mr. Downs in his re- 
marks showed himself a strong advocate of the whole 
system of Slavery, as also did another Southern Senator, 
whom I had not before heard. In the latter gentleman's 
speech, tonsils or tongue refuse to co-operate as they should, 
or there is a sort of labial rebellion — in other words, he 
has not a free and easy utterance, but rather suffers from 
an impediment to the smooth and even flow of talk. His is 
oratory under difficulties, and he by that circumstance re- 
motely suggests Demosthenes, as he gesticulated by the 
seaside, with his mouth full of pebbles. In another re- 
sp«jt, he and his compeers, when advocating or defending 
oppression, when threatening the North and ridiculing its 
sentiments, remind us of Demosthenes. They talk to the 
wind, which ' goeth where it listeth' with a wild sweep and 
a whistle of defiance ; to the sea, which sounds and dashes 
on — rolls its destructive waves and scatters its saucy spray, 
heedless alike of their rage and their rhetoric. 

The strangest of all strange things is, that any appre- 



SELECTIONS FROlVf LETTERS. 367 

hension should be felt in the North, at Southern threats of 
disunion. It were like the attenipt of a crew to scuttle the 
ship in mid-ocean ; the madness of an aeronaut who would 
rip open his balloon in mid-heaven; or of the samphire- 
gatherer, who would cut the rope which sustains him in his 
' dreadful trade ' ; or like the folly of the inconstant Turkish 
husband, the Moslem Disunionist, who, in bagging his better 
half, to dispose of her by summary process, unfortunately 
in his haste stitched the sack to his own loose trowsers, and 
hurled himself into the Bosphorus. 

In the course of his remarks, one of the Southern 
speakers warned us of the North against encouraging the 
immigration of fugitive slaves, averring that the presence 
and influence of such a degraded class would be ' de- 
moralizing' to our rising generation. The truth of this 
statement I could hardly deny, as the proofs seemed to stand 
out before me, abundant and conclusive. 

But though I am sometimes startled and revolted by the 
utterance by Southern men of sentiments which seem to me 
in conflict with all the principles of right and justice, I can 
understand how they, ' to the manor born,' should hold those 
sentiments. But I know no words in which to express my 
woman's scorn of those Northern renegades, false to free- 
dom, to their pledges, and constituents, and to their own 
manhood, who prostrate themselves with more than Oriental 
obsequiousness before the dominant power, and perform 
' with alacrity ' the most servile work of their task-masters 
— their task-masters, who despise while they use them. At 
this ' awful crisis,' when some of the privileges of that 
peculiar institution, which it seems our Government was 
formed principally to protect, are being questioned or 
denied. Northern politicians of this type are running en 
masse to the rescue — propitiating with works of super- 
erogation — doing wonderful things in the way of tumbling ' 
and somersaulting, and performing prodigies of prostration. 
For this patriotic devotion, they look for their reward with a 



'Am 



GREENWOOD LEAVES. 



simple faith which is really edifyino;. They are not such 
fools as to hang themselves after their 'disagreeable duty' 
of betrayal, but make political capital out of it, and put 
their thirty pieces of silver out at interest. 

But shall I not have a little pleasant chat with you, before 
I stop ? Let us drop these disagreeable subjects ; they 
only vex and discourage me, pour vinegar into my heart, 
and squeeze wormwood into my inkstand. 

We have had some very delicious sunshiny days of late, 
though the weather cannot be depended on, is extremely 
variable and capricious. On Thursday afternoon I had a 
charming gallop with some pleasant friends. Apollonia 
Jagiello was of the party, and half wild with childlike 
gayety. She rides with much freedom, fearlessness, and 
grace, and, with her very picturesque dress, looks finely 
indeed on horseback. 

I enjoyed the excursion keenly, though my horse proved 
to have more fire and fury than is quite commendable in a 
horse ; was ferociously hard on the bit, and had rather a 
disagreeable habit of pulling downward, as if he were 
stooping to tie up his shoe. 

Yesterday, we visited the Prison and the Infirmary, both 
of which deserve a better notice than I can give them here. 
At the former place, we were most interested by Captains 
Sayres and Drayton, of the ' Pearl.'' We found them as 
comfortable and cheerful as we could have expected. 
Drayton says that he suffers most from the vile companion- 
ship which he is obliged to endure. 

The jailer, who is a very gentlemanly person, spoke in 
high terms of those two prisoners. As I looked into the 
melancholy faces of these men, suffering so deeply and 
hopelessly through long years, for the crime of helping their 
oppressed and degraded brothers to the freedom they them- 
selves inherited and loved, sharp was the pain at my heart, 
bitter and I fear impatient the cry of my soul — ' How long, 
oh, Lord ! how long ? ' I was glad to hear that Mr. Drayton, 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 



369 



who impressed me as a very sincere, earnest man, was 
shortly to be removed to more comfortable quarters. I hope 
that he may be allowed a room to himself, for, with all his 
submission and faith, he can scarcely be otherwise than 
wretched where he now is. 

It was beautiful to witness Jagiello's sympathy with these 
unfortunate men. She, simple girl, could see no difference 
between helping American slaves to obtain their freedom, 
and inciting Hungarian peasants to revolt against Austrian 
tyranny — or rescuing Polish exiles, condemned to Siberia. 
Ah, when will she learn the grand American creed, that 
God is a partial Father, who made of one blood all the 
nations of the earth — save Ethiopians, whom He created 
in order to unbosom Himself of a great curse, and to wreak 
an eternal hate ; when will she learn our fundamental 
Republican principle, that ' all men are created free and 
equal ' — except ' niggers."* But I fear her truthful, childlike 
mind will never come up to such heights of wisdom. 

' Could no one convince you that slavery is right ? ' said 
Mrs. B to her the other day. 

'Not the Lord himself,' she answered, in a deep, firm 
voice, and with one of her clear, brilliant glances. 

But I must say, adieu ! 



LETTER XXXIX. 

Washington, March 3, 1851. 

Dear W : I must give you but a brief and hurried 

letter on this last day of the session. I am to go up to the 
Capitol at an earlier hour than usual, and my morning has 
been sadly interrupted. 

I am feeling somewhat depressed to-day, I must confess. 
My winter in Washington has been one of great enjoyment, 
and T have sincere regret in parting from so many whose 



370 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

society has given me both pleasure and profit. During the 

past two months we have been having at Dr. B 's, on 

Saturday evenings, social, informal parties — Free Soil 
soirees — gatherings together of the elect for counsel, ' aid, 
and comfort.' On Saturday night last, these pleasant re- 
unions came to an end, amid general and earnest expressions 
of regret. 

Among those most faithful in attendance at these agree- 
able, but rather exclusive, soirees was Mr. Root of Ohio, 
who will not, I am sorry to say, return to Washington next 
session. He has added much to the life and gayety of our 
circle. A great lover and provoker of laughter, an in- 
corrigible wag, he is yet, as you doubtless well know, a 
true, fearless, and earnest man. He has played his part 
faithfully since he has been here, and under circumstances 
well calculated to test his temper and capacity. With all 
his humor, mirthfulness, and good nature, he is not an 
antagonist to be lightly estimated, nor one with whom his 
opponents are particularly anxious to engage. Though not 
a fierce hand-to-hand gladiator, he is a skilful matador, 
shaking his red mantle as if in sport, but giving keen, quick, 
effective strokes under it. 

Perhaps the one in our circle most honored and beloved 
is Mr. Giddings of Ohio. A large and fearless spirit has in 
him a fitting embodiment. He is, I think, the most pow- 
erfully built man in the House — tall, full-chested, broad- 
shouldered, a sort of political Ajax, full of energy and 
endurance, while his happy, genial countenance shows that 
the generous feelings of his early manhood are yet alive 
and fresh — he is, thank Heaven, good for many years more 
of noble action. Mr. Giddings talks of going to the World's 
Fair. I hope he will not fail to forward himself, for we 
could hardly send a finer specimen of American manhood. 

Mr. Durkee of Wisconsin is one of the friends we most 
prize. He possesses a most liberal and benevolent spirit, 
warm, social feelings, and pure, reformatory principles. 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. 371 

He has the most abiding, unfailing, happy faith in the 
speedy triumph of the right — in the speedy coming of that 
promised, prayed-for, long-tarrying ' good time.' Why, he 
actually believes in the Millennium! — that the final re- 
demption of the human mind from error, the human heart 
from crime, of human lives from wrong and sulfering, is 
not a lying hope, a divine mockery ; that liberty and justice 
are not cold abstractions, beautiful ideals, but God's own 
realities, the priceless heritage of his children, whose rights 
He himself shall vindicate at last. 

Mr. Mann and Mr. Allen of Massachusetts, Mr. Julian of 
Indiana, Mr. Doty of Wisconsin, Mr. Wilmot of Pennsyl- 
vania, Mr. Gott and Preston King of New York, have been 
among our most welcome visitors ; and a fine set of honest, 
earnest, and sensible men they are, with clear heads and 
kindly hearts, quick impulses, but firm principles. 

Governor Cleveland of Connecticut frequently looked in 
upon us. He is a very agreeable, but an ambitious man, 1 
fear ; for not content, as many a legislator would be, with 
the reputation of being one of the handsomest men in 
Congress, he aspires to win a still higher fame by the 
advocacy of sentiments just and noble, to-day unpopular, 
but having within themselves the germs of future honor. 
This nurturing a young century plant is not such egregious 
folly after all. True, you may never see its blossoming, 
but eyes which caught their brightness from yours may grow 
brighter as they gaze on it in the days to come. 

March 4, 1851. 

I left my letter rather abruptly yesterday, and went up to 
the Capitol. I was so fortunate as to be present in the 
House at the passage of the resolution for the aid of Kossuth. 
It was really beautiful and cheering to witness the ready and 
almost unanimous action of our Representatives upon this 
question. On the last day of the session, when overwhelmed 
with business of the most pressing importance, they yet 



372 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

turned aside in the spirit of a chivalrous fraternity, to give 
countenance and assistance to Hungary's unfortunate patriot 
and his brave associates. All honor to them for their 
generous impulses — their magnanimity — for their sym- 
pathy with the fallen — for their recognition of the universal 
brotherhood of freemen. I never felt so proud of my country 
as at the moment when that resolution passed. I turned an 
exulting look upon the face of an English friend who stood 
at my side, and he, by his sympathy, added not a little to 
the patriotic glorying which swelled my heart. But ' pride 
must have a fall ' is an old saying, and it soon proved itself 
in a most melancholy and mortifying manner. 

In the early part of the evening session, in the House, 
there was, as you will have seen, a personal rencounter 
between Mr. Stanly and Mr. Clingman, the blame of which 
would seem to rest upon the shoulders of the latter gentle- 
man. He began an altercation with Mr. Stanly, calling him 
opprobrious names, and followed them with a blow. Though 
of a passionate nature, and of a keen, sarcastic temper, Mr. 
Stanly is said to have been wonderfully calm and forbearing 
in his language toward his bitter and violent antagonist. Of 
course, there will be a meeting. Perhaps, as Mr. Clingman 
threatened, not so bloodless an one as the late affair between 
Messrs. Stanly and Inge. Mr. Stanly is one of the most 
fearless, independent, and liberal of the Southern members, 
beside being an able and spirited speaker, and a finished 
gentleman. The country could sooner spare the entire 
squad of reckless and belligerent legislators, who seek to 
make of the floor of Congress an arena for the bully, who, 
wanting equally the controlling force of high intellect and 
the weight of moral principle, would settle the atfairs of the 
nation by the pistol, the bowie-knife, or a chivalrous resort 
to fisticuffs. 

I deeply regretted that Mr. Stanly should accept a chal- 
lenge ; I shall the more deeply regret his sending one. He 
should never more give the weight of his example to the 



SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS. o7o 

horrible barbarity, the infernality of duelling. He cannot 
himself, in his own deepest heart, approve of the practice, 
and I believe that he is mistaken, if he thinks that public 
opinion, even in the South, requires him to prove his animal 
courage by murdering, or being murdered. That a great 
and happy change of sentiment in regard to this question is 
taking place in the Southern States, has been well proved by 
Major Borland, one of the present Sena:tprs from Arkansas. 
Previous to his election to the Senate, and in the midst of a 
violent political excitement, he was grossly insulted, and 
called out by a quarrelsome opponent. Having been, in 
early life, engaged in a duel, when he severely wounded his 
antagonist, he had become convinced of the evil, sin, and 
folly of the practice, and now had the moral courage to 
refuse a challenge, though forced upon him in a most 
insulting and irritating manner. He laid the matter before 
the people of his State in a noble and manly letter, and to 
the honor of that people be it said, that the refusal of the 
soldier to prove his courage by fighting a duel, insured, 
instead of defeating the election of the Senator. A con- 
summation devoutly to be thankful for — not only as the 
triumph of a moral principle, but also because it has given 
to the Senate a man of fine ability and generous spirit. 
True to the interests of his section of the country, and 1 
doubt not, to his own convictions, ho is not illiberal, is 
never arrogant in tone, unfair, or discourteous in debate. 

The Senate and House have been in session all night. In 
my next, I may attempt a sketch of legislation by gas-light, 
or by the ghastly light of the early morning. Do pardon 
tiie haste in which I have w^ritten. I am keeping the press 
open. I have not looked back over a line, but have been 
obliged to dash oft' a page at a time and let the devil take 
it ; thus unkindly anticipating the fervent wish of some of 
my readers. ' Adieu, 

32 



374 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

[Editorial.] 
A GOOD STORY SPOILED IN THE TELLING 



Mr. Webster, in his late letter to the New York Union 
Committee, has the following : 

' Some persons aftect to believe that the Union is not, 
and has not been, in any danger. They treat your elTorts, 
made for its preservation, with indifference, and often with 
derision. It appears to me that the temper of these persons 
is very much like that of those who, when the fountains of 
the great deep had been broken up, the windows of Heaven 
opened, and rain had fallen upon the earth forty days and 
forty nights, until every thing but the Peak of Mount Ararat 
was already under water, did not still " believe that there 
would be much of a shower." [Great applause and roars 
of laughter, which continued for several minutes.'] 

Now we respectfully protest against this new version of a 
very old story — as one highly improbable and lamentably 
wanting in point. The honorable letter-writer doubtless 
wished to make his figure as strong as possible, and so 
overdid the matter. One can but wonder where, during the 
forty days and forty nights of steady rain, these same in- 
different and skeptical persons took refuge — where ' on 
airth'' they found dry footing. True, Mr. Webster has very 
considerately left bare the peak of Ararat, but we believe it 
is the generally received opinion that even that high point 
was overflowed until after the subsiding of the waters. 

The version of this ancient tradition most familiar to us, 
and which to our mind bears most marks of authenticity, 
runs somewhat thus : 



A GOOD STORY PPOILED IN THE TELLING. 375 

Noah, the pious patriarch, had a friend and neighbor, who 
at the first rather favored his little fanatical plan of providing 
in time for a rainy day ; who even gave him the benefit of 
his valuable advice in the construction of the ark, con- 
tributed some timber, and drove a spike or two with his own 
strong hand. He moreover endured for a while the opposition 
of a contemptuous public opinion, and recognized, or seemed 
to recognize, the ' higher law ' of God's command. But after 
a time, when the strife between the Delugians and Anti- 
Delugians grew really serious, the tradition states that he 
deserted the unpopular cause, and went over to the majority, 
expressing a conviction that his friend Noah, a well-meaning 
old man enough, was carrying a sentiment quite too far ; 
and giving it as his solemn opinion that Messrs. Shem, Ham, 
and Japhet, were dark, designing men, cloaking dangerous 
and treasonable projects under philanthropic pretensions. 

We may presume that Noah missed and mourned his 
quondam friend, but he is said to have smiled a curious sort 
of smile as he saw him growing daily more worldly, portly 
and prosperous, while he, neglected and despised, kept 
patiently hammering away at his huge abstraction. 

Matters went on in this way until the day when, at the 
head of his family and dumb dependents, the patriarchal 
enthusiast took possession of the ark. If we may credit the 
tradition, it happened that on the very succeeding night his 
distinguished countryman was attending a grand dinner 
given in his honor; and that he then and there made a 
great speech in which he ig-Noahed his old friend and his 
policy, and cracked rich jokes, like bottles of generous 
Burgundy, against the awkward vessel which had lain so 
long in the stocks, the great unlaunched. There followed 
immense applause and roars of laughter, which continued 
for several minutes, while the knowing ones are said to have 
winked across the board, and slily trod on each others' toes, 
to remind of somebody who, in the days gone by, helped to 
lay the keel of that same old craft. 



376 GRFEf^WOOD LEAVES. 

Tt has also come down to us that in the gray of the 
morning the eloquent speaker set out for his home, some 
two or three leagues to the southward. It had been raining 
all night, and as he dozed on the luxurious cushions of his 
carriage, he was finally troubled by a dim impression of a 
continual fording of streams. Becoming a little anxious for 
his elegant equipage, he called at last to the coachman to 

know what in the name of goodness he was about, and 

was informed that there had been a great 'fresh,' and all the 
country was overflowed. 

Soon an inside place grew quite uncomfortable, and was 
abandoned for a seat with the driver ; the water rose higher 
and higher ; the road was lost ; the horses became des- 
perate ; the driver, in cutting them loose, was swept away, 
leaving his master alone on the box, drenched with rain, and 
blue from the keen blasts of a northeaster. Presently, says 
the tradition, he beheld the ark just set afloat, and bearing 
down towards him, and in a facetious manner, peculiarly 
his own, called out, ' Floating Menagerie, ahoy ! can't you 
take in another half-drowned creature ? Come, neighbor, 
throw out a line, for the sake of old times ; you know, I have 
a little interest in that ark, myself.' 

But Noah, looking down from the deck, shook his vener- 
able beard sadly, and replied, ' No, neighbor, you wouldn't 
come on board when I wanted you — when I would have put 
the ark herself under your command — and now I can't 
accommodate you. I am sorry, for I did respect you once, 
but my orders are peremptory. Good morning ; I admire 
your talents, but you see the plank has been hauled in.' 

Then it was that the occupant of the coach-box, looking 
after the departing voyager, gave him gracious permission 
to ' get along with his old ark,' and pronounced his cool and 
philosophic opinion as to the inconsiderable nature of the 
approaching shower. Et voild tout. 

A certain zealous old lady was once arguing strongly for 
woman's right to preach, when some one attempted to put 



A GOOD STORY SPOILED IN THE TELLING. 



377 



her down, with a text from St. Paul. ' Ah,' she said, ' there 
is where Paul and I differ.' So we may say of this little 
question of history, or sacred tradition — it is where we and 
the honorable Secretary .differ. 



39* 



PREACHERS AND POLITICS— A CONTRAST, 



The ' Union' of Sunday (the 19th ultimo) brought out, 
with a great flourish of trumpets, the Thanksgiving Sermon 
of Dr. Boardman of Philadelphia — a religio-political dis- 
course on the dangerous agitation and fanaticism of the 
times, and on the horrors and perils of disunion. Its 
morality is of the low-toned, time-serving order ; as a 
literary production, it is somewhat inflated and pedantic, 
and as much overloaded with quotations as some senatorial 
speeches. We know that we may not, without incurring 
the charge of presumption, attempt criticism upon the 
literary character, least of all, upon the moral and religious 
tone of a discourse which has received the patronizing com- 
mendation of the 'Union' and the ' Pennyslvanian.' 

Hunkerism boasts that the pacific and compromising 
resolutions of Union meetings call out solemn responses 
from pulpits of highest respectability, and journals of the 
most immaculate and unimpeachable orthodoxy; that great 
numbers of the higher order of the clergy, ' rulers and 
chief priests,' are declaring against the progress, the liberal 
opinions, the freedom, and the justice of the age ; coming 
up to the help of the mighty against the Lord. And there 
is, alas ! too much ground for such exulting — Stuart, 
Dewey, Brainerd, Hawkes, Boardman, and many others, 
are always ready to answer the demands of the dominant 
power for any thing in their line. 

We have been struck in the perusal of discourses in 
vindication of slavery, or in support of the Fugitive Slave 



PREACHERS AND POLITICS A CONTRAST. 379 

Law, by the careful avoidance of Christ and his teachings. 
The reverend speakers luxuriate in vivid pictures of the 
patriarchal institutions; of men 'after God's own heart' 
buying and selling slaves by the score ; of hosts of servi- 
tors, male and female, in capacities of honor and dishonor, 
alike humble and submissive, gathered into one grand 
household, and subservient to one venerable and divinely 
appointed head. They even make much of Paul sending 
back Onesimus ; but they generally manage to pilot the frail 
barque of their reasoning quite clear of the Evangelists. 
The teaching by the seaside they "pass by in reverent si- 
lence ; the Sermon on the Mount they dare not listen to, lest 
it utterly confound them and put them to open shame ; and 
far be it from them to presume to re-enact that law of God 
which says, ' Do unto others as you would have others do 
unto you.' The Old Testament has been long the treasure- 
house from which they have taken balsams to heal the hurts 
of the Church — it now furnishes assuaging oil to be poured 
into the gaping wounds of the State, and sacred incense to 
be burned on the moustaches of the incensed chivalry. 
Whoever disturbs the peace of the Church, and renders its 
high places perilous, or uncomfortable, is a thief and a 
robber, and is at once to be expelled by weapons caught 
from the armory of most ancient Holy Writ. When will 
the people believe, what their spiritual teachers are doing 
their best to convince them of, that men wearing snowy 
neck-cloths, or bands and surplices, may stand up in velvet- 
hung pulpits and read most patriotic and pacific discourses ; 
and even turn over the gilded leaves of the gold-clasped 
volume before them and cite the examples of patriarchs, 
priests, and kings, and all from other motives than the good 
of souls, or even the best good of the church. 

We have heard somewhere a story of an Indian who 
went once to the house of a m.inister, and, sitting down in a 
corner, with an elongated face, began a religious conversa- 
tion, in the only way known to him ; that is, by solemnly 
repeating certain Scripture names, thus, — 



180 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 



Abraham, Isaac, Jacob,' 



' Why, Tom, what do you mean ? ' interrupted the aston- 
ished divine. 

' I mean cider,'' frankly replied his copper-colored friend. 

Were we not fearful of being held as ' little better than 
one of the wicked,' we should say that, in our time, the 
minister seems too often to take the place of the poor 

Indian ; talks Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and means . 

But we will leave the sentence unfinished, and its import 
obscure, for we fear we were close verging on irreverence. 

' Woe 's the day !' would our good grandfather have said, 
' woe 's the day, when women set up to rebuke the clergy ! ' 

Ah, no, dear grandfather, woe 's the day when the clergy 
deserved such reproof! 

Woman has a deeper sympathy with the suffering and 
oppressed than man ; a heartier hatred of wrong, while her 
contempt for unmanliness and a time-serving expediency is 
more intense. Then, why should she not speak these out, 
with all earnestness and sincerity, even should a share of 
her sharp words fall to the clergy. If that venerable body 
are not more faithful to their high calling, the very children 
will begin to rebuke them out of their Sunday School 
lessons. 

But, thank God, there are a goodly number yet who have 
not bowed the knee to the Baal of Slavery, nor been thrown 
into spasms of fright by the giant phantom of Disunion ; 
men incorruptible and undismayed, who stand forth and 
proclaim the true Gospel, the pure democracy of Christ, as 
it was first proclaimed by the wayside, on the Mount, and by 
the seashore ; who boldly preach justice and freedom, and 
the great primal law of human right, which no sophistical 
reasoning can weaken, no compromise annul, and no legis- 
lation supersede. Of such are many of the noble New 
England clergy ; of such is William Furness of Philadel- 
phia, ' not a whit behind the chiefest of Freedoni's apostles.' 
This true minister now occupies a noble position, yet few 



PREACPIERS AND POLfTICS A CONTRAST. 381 

would deem it an enviable one. He has come up by much 
struggling to a great height, where he must battle with the 
elements to maintain his stand ; where he has indeed the 
clear sunshine of God's approval ; but where he must miss 
the quiet, the genial light and warmth, and the pleasant 
companionship of the ' valley-land.' True, his feet are set 
upon a rock ; but it is a rock in the midst of angry waters, 
between him and much which made life beautiful and 
happy rolls a deep sea, which may never be recrossed. It 
is not the malice of foes which tries the soul of the reformer, 
but the alienation of friends ; it is not the new hate fiercely 
poured upon his head, but the old love coldly withdrawn 
from his heart. 

Many and inestimable are the sacrifices which Mr. Fur- 
ness has made of the friendships and confidences, and 
pleasant associations of years, by his open and ardent 
advocacy of the most unpopular of unpopular causes. His 
reward is sure, nor yet altogether in the future. When our 
treasures are truly laid up in heaven, we do not fail to re- 
ceive the interest here. To him it comes daily in a quicken- 
ing of life — a deepening fervor, a larger growth of power — 
a miraculous increase of that childlike faith which leads the 
soul to loose its grasp on all human dependences, and seize 
hold on the sure promise of God, though to be swung out 
into darkness, and dragged through deeps. He does not 
preach that stern Roman justice whose motto is, 'Do right, 
though the heavens fall ! ' but rather says. Do right and the 
heavens will not fall. If they have been pillared by the 
mercy and forbearance of God thus long, and have not 
come down in blackness to whelm a world of wrongs and 
oppressions, far less will be the peril when men begin to 
' Do justly and love mercy.' Then shall the skies smile in 
brightness, and shower down blessings ; then shall be peace 
and true union; for freedom, equality, and fraternity, shall 
unite in indestructible bonds, not one nation alone, but all 
nations; then will be the world-wide recognition of that 



382 GREENWOOD LEAVES. 

only true principle of Democracy, cradled in a manger, and 
reared at a carpenter's bench ; the hope of the poor and 
oppressed of all ages, and the final redemption of ' the 
degraded, corrupt, and dissolute,' whether they be found 
amono; free colored men or enslaved white men. 



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